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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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CALIFORNIA. 


BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 


FROM   CHICAGO  TO  OGDEN. 


T 


words  haunted  us  and  hindered  our  rest.  What 
should  we  eat  and  drink,  and  wherewithal  should  we  be 
clothed  ?  No  Scripture  was  strong  enough  to  calm  our 
anxious  thoughts  ;  no  friend's  experience  of  comfort  and 
ease  on  the  journey  sounded  credible  enough  to  disarm 
our  fears.  "Dust^is  dust,"  said  we,  "and  railroad  is 
railroad.  All  restaurant  cooking  in  America  is  intoler- 
able.    We  shall  be  wretched ;  nevertheless,  we  go." 

There  is  a  handsome  black  boy  at  the  Sherman 
House,  Chicago,  who  remembers,  perhaps,  how  many 
parcels  of  "  life  preservers  "  of  one  kind  and  another 
were  lifted  into  our  drawing-room  on  the  Pullman  cars. 
But  nobody  else  will  ever  know. 

Our  drawing-room  ?  Yes,  our  drawing-room  ;  and 
this  is  the  plan  of  it :  A  small,  square  room,  occupying 
the  whole  width  of  the  car,  excepting  a  narrow  passage- 
way on  one  side ;  four  windows,  two  opening  on  this 
passage-way  and  two  opening  out  of  doors  ;  two  doors, 
one  opening  into  the  car  and  one  opening  into  a  tiny 
closet,  which  held  a  washstand  basin.  This  closet  had 
another  door,  opening  into  another  drawing-room  be- 
yond. No  one  but  the  occupants  of  the  two  drawing- 
rooms  could  have  access  to  the  bath-closet.  On  one  side 
of  our  drawing-room  a  long  sofa  ;  on  the  other  two  large 
arm-chairs,  which  could  be  wheeled  so  as  to  face  the 
sofa.     Two  shining  spittoons  and  plenty  oi  looking- 


4  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

glass,  hooks  high  up  on  the  sides,  and  silver-plated  rods 
for  curtains  overhead,  completed  the  list  of  furniture. 
Room  on  the  floor  for  bags  and  bundles  and  baskets  ; 
room,  too,  for  a  third  chair,  and  a  third  chair  we  had  for 
a  part  of  the  way,  —  an  easy-chair,  with  a  sloping  Ijack, 
which  belonged  to  another  of  these  luxurious  Pullman 
cars.  A  perplexing  sense  of  domesticity  crept  over  us 
as  we  settled  into  corners,  hung  up  our  cologne  bottles, 
and  missed  the  cat !  Then  we  shut  both  our  doors,  and 
smiled  triumphantly  into  each  other's  faces,  as  the  train 
glided  out  of  the  station.  No  one  can  realize  until  he 
has  journeyed  in  the  delightful  quiet  and  privacy  of  these 
small  drawing-rooms  on  the  Pullman  cars  how  much  of 
the  wear  and  tear  of  railroad  travel  is  the  result  of  the 
contact  with  people.  Be  as  silent,  as  unsocial,  as  surly 
as  you  please,  you  cannot  avoid  being  more  or  less  im- 
pressed by  the  magnetism  of  every  human  being  in  the 
car.  Their  faces  attract  or  repel ;  you  like,  you  dislike, 
you  wonder,  you  pity,  you  resent,  you  loathe.  In  the 
course  of  twenty-four  hours  you  have  expended  a  great 
amount  of  nerve  force,  to  no  purpose  ;  have  borne  hours 
of  vicarious  suffering,  by  which  nobody  is  benefited. 
Adding  to  this  hardly  calculable  amount  of  mental  wear 
and  tear  the  physical  injury  of  breathing  bad  air,  we 
sum  up  a  total  of  which  it  is  unpleasant  to  think.  Of 
the  two  evils  the  last  is  the  worst.  The  heart  may,  at 
least,  try  to  turn  away  from  unhappy  people  and  wicked 
people,  to  whom  it  can  do  no  good.  But  how  is  the 
body  to  steel  itself  against  unwashed  people  and  dis- 
eased people  with  whom  it  is  crowded,  elbow  to  elbow, 
and  knee  to  knee,  for  hours  ?  Our  first  day  in  our 
drawing-room  stole  by  like  a  thief.  The  noon  sur- 
prised us,  and  the  twilight  took  us  unawares.  By 
hundreds  of  miles  the  rich  prairie  lands  had  unrolled 
themselves,  smiled,  and  fled.  On  the  very  edges  of 
the  crumbling,  dusty  banks  of  our  track  stood  pink, 
and  blue,  and  yellow  flowers,  undisturbed.  The  home- 
steads in  the  distances  looked  like  shining  green  for- 
tresses, for  nearly  every  house  has  a  tree  wall  on  two 


FROM  CHICAGO    TO   OGDEN.  5 

sides  of  it.  The  trees  looked  like  poplars,  but  we  could 
not  be  sure.  Often  we  saw  only  the  solid  green  square, 
the  house  being  entirely  concealed  from  view.  As  we 
drew  near  the  Mississippi  River,  soft,  low  hills  came 
into  view  on  each  side ;  tangled  skeins  of  httle  rivers, 
shaded  by  tall  trees,  wound  and  unwound  themselves 
side  by  side  with  us.  A  big  bridge  lay  ready,  on  which 
we  crossed  ;  everybody  standing  on  the  platform  of  tlie 
cars,  at  their  own  risk,  according  to  the  explicit  prohi- 
bition of  the  railroad  company.  Burlington  looked  well, 
high  up  on  red  bluffs  ;  fine  large  houses  on  the  heights, 
and  pleasant  little  ones  in  the  suburbs,  with  patches  of 
vineyard  in  the  gardens. 

"  Make  your  beds  now,  ladies  ? "  said  the  chamber- 
man,  whose  brown  face  showed  brighter  brown  for  his 
gray  uniform  and  brass  buttons. 

"Yes,"  we  rephed.  "That  is  just  what  we  most  de- 
sire to  see." 

Presto  !  The  seats  of  the  arm-chairs  pull  out,  and 
meet  in  the  middle.  The  backs  of  the  arm-chairs  pull 
down,  and  lie  flat  on  level  with  the  seats.  The  sofa 
pulls  out  and  opens  into  double  width.  The  roof  of  our 
drawing-room  opens  and  lets  down,  and  makes  two  more 
bedsteads,  which  we,  luckily,  do  not  want ;  but  from 
under  their  eaves  come  mattresses,  pillows,  sheets,  pil- 
low-cases, and  curtains.  The  beds  are  made  ;  the  roof 
shut  up  again ;  the  curtains  hung  across  the  glass  part 
of  the  doors  ;  the  curtains  drawn  across  the  passage-way 
windows  ;  the  doors  shut  and  locked  ;  and  we  undress 
as  entirely  and  safely  as  if  we  were  in  the  best  bedroom 
of  a  house  not  made  with  wheels.  Because  we  are  so 
comfortable  we  lie  awake  a  little,  but  not  long  ;  and  thai 
is  the  whole  story  of  nights  on  the  cars  when  the  cars 
are  built  by  Pullman  and  the  sleeping  is  done  in  drawing- 
rooms. 

Next  morning,  more  prairie, — unfenced  now,  undi- 
vided, unmeasured,  unmarked,  save  by  the  different  tints 
of  different  growths  of  grass  or  grain  ;  great  droves  of 
cattle  grazing  here  and  there  ;   acres  of  willow  saplings, 


6  BITS   OF  TKAVEL  AT  HOME. 

pale  jellowish  green;  and  solitary  trees,  which  look 
like  hermits  in  a  wilderness.  These,  and  now  and 
then  a  shapeless  village,  which  looks  even  lonelier  than 
the  empty  loneliness  by  which  it  is  surrounded,  —  these 
are  all  for  hours  and  hours.  We  think,  "  now  we  are  get- 
ting out  into  the  great  spaces."  "  This  is  what  the  word 
'West'  has  sounded  like."  At  noon  we  come  to  a  spot 
where  railway  tracks  cross  each  other.  The  eye  can 
follow  their  straight  lines  out  and  away,  till  they  look  like 
fine  black  threads  flung  across  the  green  ground,  pur- 
poseless, accidental.  A  train  steams  slowly  off  to  the 
left ;  the  passengers  wave  handkerchiefs  to  us,  and  we  to 
them.  They  are  going  to  Denver  ;  but  it  seems  as  if 
they  might  be  going  to  any  known  or  unknown  planet. 
One  man  alone  —  short,  fat  —  is  walking  rapidly  away 
into  the  wide  Southern  hemisphere.  He  carries  two 
big,  shining  brass  trombones.  Where  can  he  be  going, 
and  what  can  be  the  use  of  trombones  .?  He  looks  more 
inexplicable  than  ten  comets. 

We  cross  the  Missouri  at  Council  Bluffs  ;  begin  grum- 
bling at  the  railroad  corporations  for  forcing  us  to  take 
a  transfer  train  across  the  river ;  but  find  ourselves 
plunged  into  the  confusion  of  Omaha  before  we  have 
finished  railing  at  the  confusion  of  her  neighbor.  Now 
we  see  for  the  first  time  the  distinctive  expression  of 
American  overland  travel.  Here  all  luggage  is  weighed 
and  rechecked  for  points  further  west.  An  enormous 
shed  is  filled  with  it.  Four  and  five  deep  stand  the 
anxious  owners,  at  a  high  wooden  wall,  behind  which 
nobody  may  go.  Everybody  holds  up  checks,  and  ges- 
ticulates and  beckons.  There  seems  to  be  no  sys- 
tem ;  but  undoubtedly  there  is.  Side  by  side  with  the 
rich  and  flurried  New-Yorker  stands  the  poor  and  flurried 
emigrant.  Equality  rules.  Big  bundles  of  feather-beds, 
tied  up  in  blue  check,  red  chests,  corded  with  rope,  get 
ahead  of  Saratoga  trunks.  Many  languages  are  spoken. 
German,  Irish,  French,  Spanish,  a  little  English,  and 
all  varieties  of  American,  I  heard  during  thirty  minutes 
in  that  luggage-shed.     Inside  the  wall  was  a  pathetic 


FROM  CHICAGO    TO    OGDEN.  J 

sight,  —  a  poor  German  woman  on  her  knees  before  a 
chest,  which  had  burst  open  on  the  journey.  It  seemed 
as  if  its  whole  contents  could  not  be  worth  five  dollars, 
—  so  old,  so  faded,  so  coarse  were  the  clothes  and  so 
battered  were  the  utensils.  But  it  was  evidently  all  she 
owned ;  it  was  the  home  she  had  brought  with  her  from 
the  Fatherland,  and  would  be  the  home  she  would  set  up 
in  the  prairie.  The  railroad-men  were  good  to  her,  and 
were  helping  her  with  ropes  and  nails.  This  comforted 
me  somewhat ;  but  it  seemed  almost  a  sin  to  be  journey- 
ing luxuriously  on  the  same  day  and  train  with  that  poor 
soul. 

"  Lunches  put  up  for  people  going  West."  This  sign 
was  out  on  all  corners.  Piles  of  apparently  ownerless 
bundles  were  stacked  all  along  the  platforms  ;  but  every- 
body was  too  busy  to  steal.  Some  were  eating  hastily, 
with  looks  of  distress,  as  if  they  knew  it  would  be  long 
before  they  ate  again.  Others,  wiser,  were  buying  whole 
chickens,  loaves  of  bread,  and  filling  bottles  with  tea. 
Provident  Germans  bought  sausage  by  the  yard.  Ger- 
man babies  got  bits  of  it  to  keep  them  quiet.  Murder- 
ous-looking rifles  and  guns,  with  strapped  rolls  of  worn 
and  muddy  blankets,  stood  here  and  there;  murderous, 
but  jolly-looking  miners,  four-fifths  boots  and  the  rest 
beard,  strode  about,  keeping  one  eye  on  their  weapons 
and  bedding.  Well-dressed  women  and  men  with  pol- 
ished shoes,  whose  goods  were  already  comfortably 
bestowed  in  palace-cars,  lounged  up  and  down,  curious, 
observant,  amused.  Gay  placards,  advertising  all  pos- 
sible routes  ;  cheerful  placards,  setting  forth  the  advan- 
tages of  travellers'  insurance  policies  ;  insulting  placards, 
assuming  that  all  travellers  have  rheumatism,  and  should 
take  "  Unk  Weed  ;  "  in  short,  just  such  placards  as  one 
sees  everywhere,  —  papered  the  walls.  But  here  they 
seemed  somehow  to  be  true  and  merit  attention,  especi- 
ally the  "  Unk  Weed."  There  is  such  a  professional 
croak  in  that  first  syllable  ;  it  sounds  as  if  the  weed  had 
a  diploma. 

All  this  took  two  or  three  hours  ;  but  they  were  short 


8  BITS   OF   TEA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

"  All  aboard  !  "  rung  out  like  the  last  warning  on  Jersev 
City  wharves  when  steamers  push  off  for  Europe  ;  and 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  we  were  out  again  in  the  stilL 
soft,  broad  prairie,  which  is  certainly  more  like  sea  thaOj 
like  any  other  land. 

Again  flowers  and  meadows,  and  here  and  there  low 
hills,  more  trees,  too,  and  a  look  of  greater  richness. 
Soon  the  Platte  River,  which  seems  to  be  composed  of 
equal  parts  of  sand  and  water,  but  which  has  too  solemn 
a  history  to  be  spoken  lightly  of.  It  has  been  the  silent 
guide  for  so  many  brave  men  who  are  dead  !  The  old 
emigrant  road,  over  which  they  went,  is  yet  plainly  to 
be  seen  ;  at  many  points  it  hes  near  the  railroad.  Its 
still,  grass-grown  track  is  strangely  pathetic.  Soon  it 
will  be  smooth  prairie  again,  and  the  wooden  iiead- 
boards  at  the  graves  of  those  who  died  by  the  way  will 
have  fallen  and  crumbled. 

Dinner  at  Fremont.  The  air  was  sharp  and  clear. 
The  disagreeable  guide-book  said  we  were  only  1,176 
feet  above  the  sea  ;  but  we  believed  we  were  higher. 
The  keeper  of  the  dining-saloon  apologized  for  not  hav- 
ing rhubarb-pie,  saying  that  he  had  just  sent  fifty  pounds 
of  rhubarb  on  ahead  to  his  other  saloon.  "  You'll  take 
tea  there  to-morrow  night. ■" 

"  But  how  far  apart  are  your  two  houses  ?  "  said  we. 

"  Only  eight  hundred  miles.  It's  considerable  trouble 
to  go  back  an'  forth,  an'  keep  things  straight ;  but  I  do 
the  best  I  can." 

Two  barefooted  little  German  children,  a  boy  and  girl, 
came  into  the  cars  here,  with  milk  and  coffee  to  sell. 
The  boy  carried  the  milk,  and  was  sorely  puzzled  when 
I  held  out  my  small  tumbler  to  be  filled.  It  would  hold 
only  half  as  much  as  his  tin  measure,  of  which  the  price 
was  five  cents. 

"  Donno's  that's  quite  fair,"  he  said,  when  I  gave  him 
five  cents.  But  he  pocketed  it,  all  the  same,  and  ran 
on,  swinging  his  tin  can  and  pint  cup,  and  calling  out, 
"  Nice  fresh  milk.  Last  you'll  get !  No  milk  any  fur- 
ther west."     Little  rascal  !     We  found  it  all  the  way 


FROM  CHICAGO    TO   OGDEN.  9 

plenty  of  it  too,  such  as  it  was.  It  must  be  owned,  how- 
ever, that  sage-brush  and  prickly  pear  (and  if  the  cows 
do  not  eat  these,  what  do  they  eat  ?)  give  a  singularly 
unpleasant  taste  to  milk ;  and  the  addition  of  alkali 
water  does  not  improve  it. 

Toward  night  of  this  day,  we  saw  our  first  Indian 
woman.  We  were  told  it  was  a  woman.  It  was, 
apparently,  made  of  old  India-rubber,  much  soaked, 
seamed,  and  torn.  It  was  thatched  at  top  with  a 
heavy  roof  of  black  hair,  which  hung  down  from  a 
ridge-like  hne  in  the  middle.  It  had  sails  of  dingy- 
brown  canvas,  furled  loosely  around  it,  confined  and 
caught  here  and  there  irregularly,  fluttering  and  faUing 
open  wherever  a  rag  of  a  different  color  could  be  shown 
underneath.  It  moved  about  on  brown,  bony,  stalking 
members,  for  which  no  experience  furnishes  name ; 
it  mopped,  and  mowed,  and  gibbered,  and  reached 
out  through  the  air  with  more  brown,  bony,  clutching 
members;  from  which  one  shrank  as  from  the  claws  of 
a  bear.  "  Muckee  !  muckee  !  "  it  cried,  opening  wide  a 
mouth  toothless,  but  red.  It  was  the  most  abject, 
loathly  living  thing  I  ever  saw.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and 
turned  away.  Presently,  I  looked  again.  It  had  passed 
on  ;  and  I  saw  on  its  back,  gleaming  out  from  under 
a  ragged  calash-like  arch  of  basket-work,  a  smooth, 
shining,  soft  baby  face,  brown  as  a  brown  nut,  silken  as 
silk,  sweet,  happy,  innocent,  confiding,  as  if  it  were 
babe  of  a  royal  line,  borne  in  royal  state.  All  below  its 
head  was  helpless  mummy,  —  body,  legs,  armiS,  feet 
bandaged  tight,  swathed  in  a  sohd  roll,  strapped  to  a 
fiat  board,  and  swung  by  a  leathern  band,  going  around 
the  mother's  breast.  Its  great,  soft,  black  eyes  looked 
fearlessly  at  everybody.  It  was  as  genuine  and  blessed 
a  baby  as  any  woman  ever  bore.  Idle  and  thoughtless 
passengers  jeered  the  squaw,  saying  :  "  Sell  us  the  pap- 
poose."  "Give  you  greenbacks  for  the  pappoose.'' 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  I  saw  a  human  look  in  the  India- 
rubber  face.  The  eyes  could  flash,  and  the  mouth  could 
show  scorn,  as  well  as  animal  greed.     The  expression 


lO  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

was  almost  malignant,  but  it  bettered  the  face  ;  for  it 
made  it  the  face  of  a  woman,  of  a  mother. 

At  sunset,  the  clouds,  which  had  been  lying  low  and 
heavy  all  the  afternoon,  lifted  and  rolled  away  from  the 
outer  edi^e  of  the  world.  Thunder-storms  swept  around 
the  horizon,  followed  by  broken  columns  of  rainbow, 
which  lasted  a  second,  and  then  faded  into  gray.  When 
we  last  looked  out,  before  going  to  bed,  we  seemed  to 
be  whirling  across  the  middle  of  a  gigantic  green  disc, 
with  a  silver  rim  turned  up  all  around,  to  keep  us  from 
faUing  off,  in  case  we  should  not  put  down  the  brakes 
quick  enough  on  drawing  near  the  edge. 

Early  the  next  morning,  we  saw  antelopes.  They 
were  a  great  way  off,  and,  while  they  stood  still,  might  as 
well  have  been  iDig  goats  or  small  cows  ;  but,  when  they 
were  good  enough  to  bound,  no  eye  could  mistake  them. 
The  sight  of  these  consoled  us  for  having  passed  through 
the  bufifalo  country  in  the  night.  It  also  explained  the 
nature  of  the  steaks  we  had  been  eating.  How  should 
steaks  be  tender  cut  out  of  that  acrobatic  sort  of  mus- 
cle ?  We  passed  also  the  outposts  of  Prairie  Dog 
Town.  The  owls  and  the  rattlesnakes  were  "not  re- 
ceiving," apparently  ;  but  the  droll,  little  squirrel-like 
puppies  met  us  most  cordially.  The  mixture  of  defi- 
ance and  terror,  of  attack  and  retreat,  in  their  behavior 
was  as  funny  as  it  always  is  in  small  dogs,  who  bark 
and  run.  in  other  places.  But  the  number  and  manner 
of  shelters  made  it  unspeakably  droll  here.  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  actually  saw  the  whole  of  any  one  prairie  dog  at 
a  time.  What  I  chiefly  saw  was  ends  of  tails  going  into 
holes,  and  tips  of  noses  sticking  out  to  bark. 

At  noon,  we  were  invited  to  dine  at  Cheyenne,  — 
"  Cheyenne  City,"  it  is  called.  Most  of  the  buildings 
which  we  saw  were  one-story  wooden  ones,  —  small, 
square,  with  no  appearance  of  roofs,  only  a  square, 
sharp-cornered  front,  hke  a  section  of  board  fence. 
These  all  faced  the  railroad  station,  were  painted  with 
conspicuous  signs,  —  such  as  "Billiard  Saloon,"  "Sam- 
ple Room,"  "Meals   for    Fifty  Cents  ;  "   and,   in   the 


FROM  CHICAGO    TO   OGDEN.  il 

doors  of  most  of  them,  as  the  train  arrived,  there  stood 
a  woman  or  a  boy,  ringing  a  shrill  bell  furiously.  It  is 
curious,  at  these  stations,  to  see  how  instantly  the  crowd 
of  passengers  assorts  itself,  and  divides  into  grades,  — 
of  people  seeking  for  the  best ;  people  seeking  for  the 
cheapest ;  and  other  people,  most  economical  of  all, 
who  buy  only  hot  drinks,  having  brought  a  grocery  store 
and  a  restaurant  along  with  them  in  a  basket-tower. 
The  most  picturesque  meals  are  set  out  on  boards  in  the 
open  air,  and  the  most  interesting  people  eat  there  ;  but 
I  am  afraid  the  food  is  not  good.  However,  there  was 
at  Cheyenne  a  lively  widow,  presiding  over  a  stall  of 
this  sort,  where  the  bread  and  cheese  and  pickles  looked 
clean  and  eatable.  She  had  preserved  strawberries  also, 
and  two  bottles  of  California  wine,  and  a  rare  gift  at  talk- 
ing. She  was  a  pioneer,  —  had  come  out  ahve  from 
many  Indian  fights.  Her  husband  had  fared  less  well,  — 
being  brought  home  dead,  with  fourteen  arrows  in  his 
body  ;  but  even  this  did  not  shake  her  love  for  the 
West.  She  "  would  not  go  back  to  the  East,  not  on  no 
account."  "  Used  to  live  in  Boston  ;  "  but  she  "didn't 
never  want  to  see  any  o'  them  sixpenny  towns  agin." 

In  this  neighborhood  are  found  the  beautiful  moss 
agates,  —  daintiest  of  all  Nature's  secret  processes  in 
stone.  Instead  of  eating  dinner,  we  ran  up  to  a  large 
shop  where  these  stones  are  kept  for  sale,  set  in  gold 
which  may  be  said  to  be  of  their  own  kin,  since  it  comes 
from  Colorado. 

The  settings  were  not  pleasing ;  but  the  stones  were 
exquisitely  beautiful.  What  geology  shall  tell  us  the 
whole  of  their  secret  ?  Dates  are  nothing,  and  names 
are  not  much.  Here  are  microscopic  ferns,  feathery 
seaweeds,  tassels  of  pines,  rippling  water-lines  of  fairy 
tides,  mottled  drifts  of  sand  or  snows,  —  all  drawn  in 
black  or  crowded  gray,  on  and  in  and  through  the  solid 
stone.  Centuries  treasured,  traced,  copied,  embalmed 
them.  They  are  too  solemnly  beautiful  to  be  made  into 
ornaments  and  set  swinging  in  women's  ears  ! 

From  Cheyenne  to  Sherman,  we  rode  on  the  engine 


12  BITS   OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

—  on  the  foremost  engine  ;  for  we  were  climbing  moun- 
tains, and  it  needed  all  the  power  of  two  engines  to 
draw  us  up. 

At  Cheyenne,  we  were  only  six  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea ;  at  Sherman,  we  should  be  eight  thousand  two 
hundred  and  forty-two.  The  throbbing  puffs,  almost 
under  our  feet,  sounded  like  the  quick-drawn,  panting 
breaths  of  some  giant  creature.  Once  in  every  three  or 
four  minutes,  the  great  breastplate  door  opened  ;  and 
we  looked  into  its  heart  of  fire,  and  fed  it  with  fuel. 
Once  in  every  three  or  four  minutes,  one  of  the  keepers 
crept  along  on  its  sides,  out  to  its  very  mouth,  and 
poured  oil  into  every  joint ;  he  strode  its  neck,  and 
anointed  every  valve.  His  hand  seemed  to  pat  it  lov- 
ingly, as  he  came  back,  holding  on  by  the  shining  rods 
and  knobs  and  handles.  I  almost  forgot  to  look  at  the 
stretches  of  snow,  the  forests  of  pines,  the  plateaus  of 
mountain-tops,  on  either  hand,  so  absorbed  was  I  in  the 
sense  of  supernatural  motion. 

The  engineer  seemed  strangely  quiet  ;  a  calm,  steady 
look  ahead,  —  never  withdrawn  for  a  moment  at  a  time 
from  the  glistening,  black  road  before  us.  Now  and 
then,  a  touch  on  some  spring  or  pulley,  when  great  jets 
of  steam  would  spurt  out,  or  whistling  shrieks  of  warn- 
ing come. 

"  Where  is  the  rudder  ? "  said  I,  being  from  the 
sea. 

The  engineer  looked  puzzled,  for  a  second  ;  then, 
laughing,  said;  "Oh!  I  don't  steer  her;  she  steers 
herself.  Put  her  on  the  track,  and  feed  her.  That's 
all." 

Up,  up,  up !  We  are  creeping,  although  we  are 
mounting  by  steam.  Snow  lies  on  every  side  ;  and 
clumps  of  firs  and  pines,  and  rocks  of  fantastic  shapes, 
are  the  only  things  which  break  this  desolate  loneli- 
ness. We  are  so  much  above  the  tops  of  many  moun- 
tains that  they  themselves  blend  and  become  wide 
fields,  over  wliich  we  look  to  the  far  horizon,  where  rise 
still  higher  peaks,  white  with  snow.     We  see  off  in  all 


FROM  CHICAGO    TO   OGDEN.  13 

directions,  as  we  did  on  the  plains  ;  yet  clouds  are  be- 
low us,  rolling  and  rising,  and  changing  like  meadow- 
mists  !  Still,  we  climb.  The  trees  are  stunted  and 
bent,  the  rocks  are  dark  and  terrible  ;  many  of  them 
1  )ok  like  grotesque  idols,  standing  erect  or  toppling 
over.  Wyoming  has  well  named  this  region  "  The 
Black  Hills." 

At  Sherman,  we  dropped  one  of  our  engines,  and  left 
off  using  the  other.  The  descent  is  so  sharp  and  sud- 
den that  no  steam  is  needed,  only  the  restraining 
brakes. 

A  few  hours  later,  at  Laramie,  we  were  again  on  a 
plain.  We  had  gone  down  hill  steadily,  for  miles  and 
miles.  The  guide-book  seemed  incredible,  when  we 
read  that  we  were  still  more  than  seven  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea.  Yet  here  were  wide  plains,  droves  of 
cattle,  little  runs  of  water,  and  flowers  on  every  side. 
The  sun  was  setting  in  a  broad  belt  of  warm,  yellow 
sky  ;  snow  lay  in  the  crevices  of  the  lower  hills,  and 
covered  the  distant  ranges  ;  winter  and  spring  seemed 
to  have  wed. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  we  looked  out  on  a 
desert  of  sage-brush  and  sand ;  but  the  desert  had 
infinite  beauties  of  shape  and  the  sage  had  pathos  of 
color.  Why  has  the  sage-bush  been  so  despised,  so 
held  up  to  the  scorn  of  men  '^.  It  is  simply  a  miniature 
olive-tree.  In  tint,  in  shape,  the  resemblance  is  won- 
derful. Travellers  never  tire  of  recording  the  sad  and 
subtle  beauty  of  Mediterranean  slopes,  gray  with  the 
soft,  thick,  rounded  tops  of  olive  orchards.  The 
stretches  of  these  sage-grown  plains  have  the  same 
tints,  the  same  roundings  and  blendings'  of  soft,  thick 
foliage  ;  the  low  sand-hills  have  endless  variety  of  out- 
Hne,  and  all  strangely  sug<;estive.  There  are  fortresses, 
palisades,  roof  slopes  with  dormer  windows,  hollows 
like  cradles,  and  here  and  there  vivid  green  oases.  In 
these  oases  cattle  graze.  Sometimes  an  Indian  stands 
guarding  them,  his  scarlet  legs  gleaming  through  the 
sage,  as  motionless  as  the  cattle  he  watches.     A  little 


14  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  2^0 ME. 

further  on  we  come  to  his  home,  —  a  stack  of  bare 
bean-poles,  apparently  on  fire  at  the  top  ;  his  family 
sitting  by,  in  a  circle,  cross-legged,  doing  nothing ! 
Then  comes  a  tract  of  stony  country,  where  the  rocks 
seem  also  as  significant  and  suggestive  as  the  sand- 
hills,—  castles,  and  pillars,  and  altars,  and  spires  :  it  is 
impossible  to  beheve  that  human  hands  have  not 
wrought  them. 

For  half  of  a  day  we  looked  out  on  such  scenes  as  these, 
and  did  not  weary.  It  is  monotonous  ;  it  is  desolate  : 
but  it  is  solemn  and  significant.  The  day  will  come 
when  this  gray  wilderness  will  be  red  with  roses,  golden 
with  fruit,  glad  and  rich  and  full  of  voices. 

At  noon,  at  Evanstovvn,  the  observation  car  was  at- 
tached to  the  train  :  (when  will  railroad  companies  be 
wise  enough  to  know  that  no  train  ought  to  be  run  any- 
where without  such  an  open  car.?)  Twice  too  many 
passengers  crowded  in ;  everybody  opened  his  umbrella 
in  somebody's  else  eye,  and  unfolded  his  map  of  the 
road  on  other  knees  than  his  own ;  but  after  a  few  miles 
the  indifferent  people  and  those  who  dreaded  cinders, 
smoke,  and  the  burning  of  skin,  drifted  back  again  into 
the  other  cars,  leaving  the  true  lovers  of  sky,  air,  and 
out-door  room  to  enjoy  the  canons  in  peace 

What  is  a  caiion  ?  Only  a  valley  between  two  high 
hills  ;  that  is  all,  though  the  word  seems  such  a  loud 
and  compound  mystery  of  warfare,  both  carnal  and 
spiritual.  But  when  the  valley  is  thousands  or  tens  of 
thousands  of  feet  deep,  and  so  narrow  that  a  river  can 
barely  make  its  way  through  by  shrinking  and  twisting 
and  leaping;  when  one  wall  is  a  mountain  of  grassy 
slope  and  the  other  wall  is  a  mountain  of  straight, 
sharp  stone  ;  when  from  a  perilous  road,  which  creeps 
along  on  ledges  of  the  wall  which  is  a  mountain  of  stone, 
one  looks  across  to  the  wall  which  is  grassy  slope,  and 
down  at  the  silver  line  of  twisting,  turning,  leaping 
river,  the  word  canon  seems  as  inadequate  as  the  milder 
word  valley !  This  was  Echo  Canon.  We  drew  near 
Vt  thx'ough  rocky  fields  almost  as  grand  as  the  cahOD 


FROM  CIIICAuO    TO    OGDEN.  15 

itself.  Rocks  of  red  and  pale  yellow  color  were  piled 
and  strewn  on  either  hand  in  a  confusion  so  wild  that  it 
was  majestic  :  many  of  them  looked  like  gatewa3^s  and 
walls  and  battlements  of  fortifications  ;  many  of  them 
seemed  poised  on  points,  just  ready  to  fall ;  others  rose 
massive  and  solid,  from  terraces  which  stretched  away 
beyond  our  sight.  The  railroad  track  is  laid  (is  hung 
would  seem  a  truer  phrase)  high  up  on  the  right-hand 
wall  of  the  canon,  —  that  is,  on  the  wall  of  stone.  The 
old  emigrant  road  ran  at  the  base  of  the  opposite  wall 
(the  wall  of  grassy  slopes),  close  on  the  edge  of  the 
river.  Just  after  we  entered  the  canon,  as  we  looked 
down  to  the  river,  we  saw  an  emigrant  party  in  sore 
trouble  on  that  road.  The  river  was  high  and  over- 
flowed the  road  ;  the  crumbling,  gravelly  precipice  rose 
up  hundreds  of  feet  sheer  from  the  water  ;  the  cattle 
which  the  poor  man  was  driving  were  trying  to  run  up 
the  precipice,  but  all  to  no  purpose  ;  the  wife  and  chil- 
dren sat  on  logs  by  the  wagon,  apathetically  waiting,  — 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  wait  there  in  that  wild  and 
desolate  spot  till  the  river  chose  to  give  them  right  of 
way  again.  They  were  so  many  hundred  feet  below  us 
that  the  cattle  seemed  calves  and  the  people  tiny  pup- 
pets, as  we  looked  over  the  narrow  rim  of  earth  and 
stone  which  upheld  us  in  the  air.  But  I  envied  them. 
They  would  see  the  canon,  know  it.  To  us  it  would  be 
only  a  swift  and  vanishing  dream.  Even  while  we  are 
whirling  through,  it  grows  unreal.  Flowers  of  blue, 
yellow,  purple  are  flying  past,  seemingly  almost  under 
our  wheels.  We  look  over  them  down  into  broader 
spaces,  where  there  are  homesteads  and  green  meadows. 
Then  the  canon  walls  close  in  again,  and,  looking  down 
we  see  only  a  silver  thread  of  river;  looking  up,  we 
see  only  a  blue  belt  of  sky.  Suddenly  we  turn  a  sharp 
corner  and  come  out  on  a  broad  plain.  The  canon 
walls  have  opened  like  arms,  and  they  hold  a  town 
named  after  their  own  voices.  Echo  City.  The  arms 
are  mighty,  foi  they  are  snow-topped  mountains.  The 
plain  is  green  and  the  river  is  still.     On  each  side  are 


1 6  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

small  canons,  with  green  threads  in  their  centres,  show- 
ing where  the  streams  come  down.  High  up  on  the 
hills  are  a  few  little  farm-houses,  where  Americans  hve 
and  make  butter,  like  the  men  of  the  Tyrol.  A  few  miles 
further  the  mountains  narrow  again,  and  we  enter  x 
still  wider  gorge.  This  is  Weber  Canon.  Here  are 
still  higher  walls  and  more  wonderful  rocks.  Great 
serrated  ledges  crop  out  lengthwise  the  hills,  reaching 
from  top  to  bottom,  high  and  thin  and  sharp.  Two  of 
these,  which  lie  close  together,  with  apparently  only  a 
pathway  between  (though  they  are  one  hundred  feet 
apart),  are  called  the  Devil's  Slide.  Why  is  there  so 
much  unconscious  tribute  to  that  person  in  the  unculti- 
vated minds  of  all  countries  ?  One  would  think  him 
the  patron  saint  of  pioneers.  The  rocks  still  wear 
shapes  of  fortifications,  gateways,  castle  fronts,  and 
towers,  as  in  Echo  Canon  ;  but  they  are  most  exqui- 
sitely lined,  hollowed,  grooved,  and  fretted. 

As  we  whirl  by,  they  look  as  the  fine  Chinese  carv- 
ings in  ivory  would  chiselled  on  massive  stones  by  tools 
of  giants. 

The  canon  opens  suddenly  into  a  broad,  beautiful 
meadow,  in  which  the  river  seems  to  rest  rather  than 
to  run.  A  line  of  low  houses,  a  Mormon  settlement, 
marks  the  banks  ;  fields  of  grain  and  grass  glitter  in 
the  early  green ;  great  patches  of  blue  lupine  on  every 
hand  look  blue  as  blue  water  at  a  distance,  the  flowers 
are  set  so  thick.  Only  a  few  moments  of  this,  however, 
and  we  are  again  in  a  rocky  gorge,  where  there  is  barely 
room  for  the  river,  and  no  room  for  us,  except  on  a 
bridge.  This,  too,  is  named  for  that  same  popular 
person,  "  DeviPs  Gate."  The  river  foams  and  roars 
under  our  feet  as  we  go  through.  Now  comes  another 
open  plain,  —  wide,  sunny,  walled  about  by  snow 
mountains,  and  holding  a  town.  This  is  Ogden,  and 
the  shining  water  which  lies  in  sight  to  the  left  is  the 
Great  Salt  Lake  ! 


SALT  LAKE   CITY.  f? 


SALT  LAKE  CITY. 

IT  seems  strange  that  the  cars  of  the  Utah  Central 
Railroad  should  be  just  like  all  other  cars.  We  ex- 
pected to  find  "  Holiness  to  the  Lord  "  inscribed  on  the 
panels,  and  portraits  of  Mormon  elders  above  the  doors. 
In  fact,  I  am  not  sure  that  we  did  not  expect  to  see  even 
the  trees  and  shrubs  along  the  track  bearing  the  magic 
initials  of  the  "  Zion  Co-operative  Mercantile  Associa- 
tion." However,  we  made  up  for  these  lacks  by  scruti- 
nizing the  face  of  every  man  and  every  woman  about 
us,  and  searching  for  some  subtle  token  which  might 
betray  that  they  were  not  living  as  other  men  and 
women  live.  No  doubt  we  made  comical  blunders,  and 
in  our  thoughts  wrongfully  accused  many  an  innocent 
bachelor  of  the  blackest  polygamy.  However,  we 
were  right  in  one  case.  Just  as  the  cars  moved  out 
of  Ogden,  there  entered  in  at  the  door  of  our  car  a  big, 
burly  man,  perhaps  fifty-five  or  sixty  years  old.  His 
face  was  very  red  ;  he  wore  a  red  wig  ;  and,  as  if  deter- 
mined to  make  the  red  of  his  face  and  the  red  of  his 
wig  both  as  hideous  as  possible,  he  wore  about  his  neck 
a  scarf  of  a  third  shade  of  fiery  red.  His  eyes  were 
small,  light,  and  watery,  but  sharp  and  cruel.  His  face 
was  bloated,  coarse,  sensual :  I  have  never  seen  a  more 
repulsive  man. 

"Oh  !  that  is  a  Mormon,"  we  whispered,  under  our 
breaths.  "  It  must  be."  He  strode  down  the  car  in  a 
pompous  way,  followed  by  a  meek  and  lifeless-looking 
old  woman.  He  looked  from  right  to  left  with  an  air  of 
arrogant  self-consciousness,  which  would  have  beeo 
ludicrous  except  for  a  sort  of  terrible  certainty  of  powef 
in  it,  which  made  one  shudder. 
2 


r8  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  who  is  that  ? "  we  said  to  the  con- 
ductor. 

"That  is  Historian  Smith.  He  is  the  second  in 
power  in  our  church,"  reph'ed  the  conductor,  with  a 
complacent  smile. 

Afterward  we  saw  him  doing  honor  to  the  scarlet 
magnate,  with  most  obsequious  bowing  and  bending. 
But  we  soon  forgot  our  interest  in  the  baffling  fac^s  of 
Mormon  men  and  women,  and  looked  only  at  the  won- 
derful valley  through  which  we  were  journeying.  Surely 
this  Salt  Lake  Valley  is  itself  Brigham  Young's  most 
powerful  auxiliary.  No  possible  pomp  which  riches 
could  compass,  and  send  out  to  meet  the  new  prose- 
lytes, would  so  appeal  to  their  senses  as  must  the  first 
view  of  this  broad,  green  valley,  walled  in  by  snow- 
topped  mountains,  and  holding  the  great  Salt  Lake. 
There  is  a  solemnity  in  its  beauty  which  to  a  religious 
fanatic  might  easily  seem  supernatural. 

Entering  the  valley,  as  we  did,  at  Ogden,  late  in  the 
afternoon,  and  journeying  southward  to  the  city,  one 
sees  a  picture  which  cannot  be  forgotten. 

The  Wasatch  Mountains,  on  the  left,  were  like  a 
sohd  wall,  clouded  purple  and  gray  from  the  base  half 
way  up,  then  mottled  and  barred  and  striped  with  white 
wherever  snow  lay  in  the  rifts  and  seams  ;  then,  at  the 
very  top,  crowned  and  battlemented  with  sohd  snow, 
which  not  even  the  fiercest  summer  heats  would  entirely 
melt.  On  the  right  lay  the  lake,  also  glistening  like 
silver,  and  with  rippling  gleams  of  blue.  Its  further 
shore  was  a  snow-topped  mountain  range ;  and  its 
islands  were  mountains,  some  of  them  snow-topped, 
some  of  them  green,  some  of  them  bare  and  stony,  and 
red  in  the  low  sunlight.  Between  us  and  the  lake  on 
the  right,  and  between  us  and  the  Wasatch  Mountains 
on  the  left,  lay  broad  fields,  green  with  grain  or  grass, 
or  gay  with  many-colored  blossoms,  or  yellow  vrith 
small  sunflowers.  These  were  most  beautiful  of  all  : 
their  wide  belts  of  yellow  were  hke  shining  frames  to 
the  color  and  beauty  beyond.     This  sunflower  is  called 


SALT  LAKE  CLTY  19 

the  Mormon  flower,  and  is  said  to  spring  up  wherever 
Mormons  go.  If  other  Mormon  fields  are  like  these, 
the  superstition  is  well-founded.  Acre  after  acre  they 
spread,  as  solid  as  cloth  of  gold.  The  eye  could  not 
bear  their  dazzling  any  more  than  if  they  were  suns. 

Salt  Lake  City  lies  close  at  the  base  of  the  Wasatch 
range,  ^o  close  that,  as  you  first  see  the  city  from  the 
cars,  you  can  fancy  it  a  walled  town,  walled  on  one  side 
by  the  mountains,  with  a  gate  in  every  canon.  As  we 
drew  near  it,  the  sunset  lights  had  left  the  valley,  but 
still  lit  the  snowy  hill-tops. 

I  confess  that  my  first  thought  was  of  the  grand  old 
Bible  words  :  "  The  angel  of  the  Lord  encampeth  around 
them  that  fear  him."  No  doubt  many  a  devout  simple- 
hearted  Mormon  has  had  the  same  feeling,  as  he  ha? 
first  looked  on  the  scene. 

The  next  morning,  as  we  looked  down  upon  the  city 
from  some  of  the  lower  spurs  of  the  mountains,  I  found 
myself  still  conscious  of  a  peculiar  solemnity  in  its 
whole  expression.  It  is  compact,  but  not  crowded. 
Each  house  has  its  enclosure  of  fruit  and  shade  trees  ; 
so  that,  as  you  look  down  on  the  city  from  above,  it 
seems  like  a  city  built  in  a  huge  garden.  It  has  no 
straggling  suburbs,  no  poor  or  thriftless  neighborhoods  ; 
not  a  dilapidated  or  poverty-stricken  house  is  to  be 
seen.  On  each  side  of  the  principal  streets,  between 
the  side-walk  and  the  road,  run  swift,  sparkling  little 
mountain  streams.  Close  up  to  the  city  limits,  on  the 
south  and  west  and  north,  come  the  great  gray  plains  of 
the  unredeemed  alkali  bottoms,  in  which  the  city's 
dense  green  looks  like  an  oasis.  Near  the  centre  of  the 
city  rises  the  huge,  weird  dome  of  the  Tabernacle,  add- 
ing still  more  to  the  mystic  expression  of  the  scene. 

Fancy  a  roof,  smooth,  gHstening,  gray,  and  of  a  fault- 
less oval,  large  enough  to  shelter  seventeen  thousand  per- 
sons, comfortably  seated.  If  it  surmounted  any  thing 
which  could  be  properly  called  a  building,  it  would  be 
as  grand  as  St.  Peter's  :  but  it  is  placed  on  low,  straight 
brick  walls ;  and  the  whole  effect,  near  at  hand,  is  like 


20  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

nothing  more  nor  less  than  half  of  a  gigantic  egg,  split 
lengthwise.  However,  into  all  the  distant  views  of  the 
city  it  enters  well,  and  seems  strangely  in  keeping  with 
the  long  slopes  of  the  mountain  bases.  Beyond  the 
gray  alkali  plains  lies  the  shining  lake,  full  of  mountain 
islands ;  beyond  the  shining  lake  and  the  mountain 
islands  rise  snow-topped  mountain  ranges,  running  to 
the  north  and  to  the  south  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see. 
The  sun  sets  behind  these.  It  turns  them  to  purple 
mist,  then  to  golden,  then  to  pale  gray,  and  sends  their 
vivid  shadows  way  across  the  lake  and  plains.  It  rises 
behind  the  Wasatch  range  ;  and  then  that  shadow  also 
is  flung  out  beyond  the  city  and  the  plains,  till  it  quivers 
on  the  lake.  So  the  mountains  might  almost  be  said  to 
clasp  hands  over  the  city's  head.  At  noon,  when  the 
sun  was  hot,  I  looked  out  through  the  tops  of  green 
locust-trees,  and  saw  the  whole  eastern  range  blue  as 
sapphire, —  so  blue  that  the  blue  sky  above  looked  white  ; 
and  the  snow  on  the  summits  was  so  white  that  the 
white  clouds  above  looked  gray.  The  air  is  so  rarefied 
that  the  light  shimmers  dazzling  along  all  outlines,  and 
the  sense  of  distance  is  deceived.  Peaks  thirty  miles 
distant  seem  near  at  hand  ;  hills  five  miles  off  seem 
within  a  few  minutes'  walk  ;  and  the  sunshine  seems 
to  have  a  color  and  substance  to  it  which  I  never 
saw  elsewhere,  —  no,  not  even  in  Italy.  It  takes  up 
room  ! 

,  But,  in  spite  of  the  sunshine,  in  spite  of  the  beauty, 
the  very  air  seemed  heavy  with  hidden  sadness.  No 
stranger  can  walk  the  streets  of  Salt  Lake  City  without 
a  deepening  sense  of  mystery  and  pain.  We  have  been 
so  long  accustomed  to  the  idea  of  polygamy  as  a  recog- 
nized evil,  we  have  seen  the  word  so  long  and  so  often 
in  print,  that  we  are  unprepared  for  the  new  sense  of 
horror  which  is  at  once  aroused  by  the  actual  presence 
of  the  thing.  Each  sunny  doorway,  each  gay  garden,  is 
a  centre  of  conjecture,  of  sympathy.  Each  woman's 
face,  each  baby's  laugh,  rouses  thoughts  hard  to  bear. 
The  streets  are  full  of  life  ;    shops  are  busy ;  car- 


SALT  LAKE  CITY,  21 

riages  with  fine  horses  drive  up  and  down  ;  farm-wao^ona 
with  produce  are  coming  in  ;  markets  are  open  ;  stalls  on 
corners  are  piled  up  with  apples,  and  bits  of  cocoanut  in 
tin  pans  of  water,  just  such  as  are  sold  in  Boston  or  New 
York.  You  can  have  your  boots  blacked  or  your  pocket 
picked  ;  boys  and  men  of  these  and  all  other  trades 
jostle  you  on  every  hand.  Over  most  of  the  shops  is  a 
singular  placard,  a  picture  of  one  huge  eye  ;  above  it 
the  motto  "  HoHness  to  the  Lord,"  below  it  the  initials 
Z.  C.  M.  A.  These  stand  for  the  words  "  Zion's  Co- 
operative Mercantile  Association,"  and  mean  that  the 
man  who  sells  you  tape  or  lemons  behind  that  counter 
sells  them  at  the  prices  fixed  by  the  Church,  and  pays 
to  the  Church  a  semi-annual  percentage  on  all  sales. 

Passing  out  of  the  business  streets,  you  find  cosey, 
tasteful  little  homes  on  every  hand.  Flowers  at  the  win- 
dows and  in  the  gardens  ;  piazzas  shaded  by  vines  ;  fruit 
orchards  and  little  patches  of  vegetables,  or  corn,  or 
wheat,  all  through  the  city.  If  your  driver  is  a  Gentile, 
he  turns  round  from  time  to  time  with  such  comments 
as  these  :  — 

"  That's   a  three-wife   house."     "  That's  a  two-wife 

house."     "  That's  a  new  house  Mr. has  just  built 

for  his  last  wife.  "  There's  two  of  Brigham's  wives 
lives  in  that  house." 

And  before  one  of  the  pleasantest  little  houses  of  all, 
he  reins  up  his  horses  into  a  walk,  and  says  : — 

"That's  where  Amelia,  Brigham's  last  wife  lives. 
And  one  of  Mr.  Clawson's  wives  lives  with  her.  Mr. 
Clawson  —  he  married  two  of  Brigham's  daughters." 

The  heart  grows  faint.  The  sunshine  seems  dark- 
ened. You  look  up  in  involuntary  appeal  to  the  silent, 
snowy  mountains,  from  which  no  help  comes  for  this 
great  wrong.  Then  you  look  earnestly  into  the  faces  of 
all  the  women  you  see.  They  are  standing  on  doorsills, 
with  laughing  babies  in  their  arms  ;  they  are  talking 
gayly  with  each  other  on  the  sidewalk  ;  they  are  lead- 
ing little  children  ;  they  are  walking  by  the  side  of  men  ; 
they  are  carrying  burdens,  or  seeking  pleasure,  just  as 


22  BITS   OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

otlier  women  do  —  apparently.  Their  faces  are  not  sad, 
as  we  looked  to  find  them.  If  we  did  not  know  we 
were  in  Salt  Lake  City,  we  should  say.  "  These  are 
simple  and  contented  women,  uncommonly  healthy  and 
strong.  The  community,  as  a  whole,  seems  remarkably 
industrious,  prosperous,  and  innocent,  if  one  may  judge 
from  faces  and  from  expression  of  the  homesteads." 

These  are  the  Mormons,  of  whom  we  have  heard 
such  terrible  tales  of  cruelty  and  crime.  They  are  the 
men  who  have  created  this  blooming,  thriving  city,  in 
the  heart  of  a  desert ;  these  are  the  down-trodden  and 
heart-broken  women  for  whom  we  have  wept !  The 
problem  grows  more  and  more  perplexing  with  every 
hour  that  you  spend  in  the  city,  and  with  every  word 
that  you  hear.  Men,  not  Mormons,  who  have  lived 
here  for  years,  bear  the  strongest  testimony  to  the  up- 
rightness, honesty,  industry,  purity  of  Mormon  lives, 
and  to  their  charity  also.  The  city  is  divided  into 
twenty-one  wards.  Every  ward  has  its  bishop,  who 
has  several  assistants. 

"  At  every  train,  you  will  see  a  bishop  or  assistant 
from  every  ward  down  at  the  cars,  to  meet  any  poor 
person  who  may  come  in,  and  to  take  care  of  them  at 
once,"  said  a  Mormon  woman  to  me. 

"  And  we  all  take  care  of  our  own  poor  ;  each  ward 
has  to  contribute.  You'll  not  find  a  beggar  or  a  suffer- 
ing poor  person  in  our  Church.  That's  the  greatest 
part  of  our  religion,  ma'am.'' 

This  \\  Oman,  though  a  staunch  Mormon,  hates  polyg- 
amy. But  she  says,  piteously  :  "  It's  because  I  am 
not  religious  ;  I  am  not  naturally  a  rehgious  person.  I 
believe  that  polygamy  is  right,  because  the  Church 
teaches  it ;  but  I  can't  say  that  I  feel  about  it  as  a  Mor- 
mon woman  ought  to.  And  I  could  never  have  my  hus- 
band's other  wife  in  my  house  ;  (no,  never  !)  though  I 
lived  with  his  first  wife  for  twelve  years,  and  took  care 
of  her  till  she  died  ;  and  she  was  very  fond  of  me.  She 
was  quite  an  old  lady.  It's  only  last  year  she  died ; 
and,  to  the  very  last,  she  was  asking  for  me.     But,  ii 


SALT  LAKE  CITY.  23 

any  Mormon  woman  tells  you  that  they  Hkc  polygamy, 
they  lie.  It's  nothing  but  a  cross  that  they  bear  for  the 
sake  of  their  religion." 

This  woman  has  had  no  children  ;  the  younger  wife 
has  had  two.  The  husband  is  a  man  of  some  means. 
If  Mormon  men  die  without  making  wills,  their  wives 
inherit  nothing.  The  children  inherit  all  ;  and  the 
mother  takes  what  the  children,  or  the  Church,  as  guar- 
dian of  the  children,  may  choose  to  give  her.  This 
woman,  having  no  children,  will  have  no  claim  ;  yet  she 
has  earned  far  more  of  the  property  than  her  husband 
has. 

I  talked  with  another  Mormon  wife,  who  was  a  woman 
of  unusual  strength,  physically  and  mentally.  She  was 
one  of  the  pioneers,  having  come  with  the  first  party 
that  entered  the  Salt  Lake  Valley,  through  the  terrible 
path  which  is  still  called  "  Emigration  Canyon."  She 
was  then  in  her  seventeenth  year  ;  and  it  was  just  two 
months  before  the  birth  of  her  first  child. 

"  You  could  never  believe,"  she  said,  "  to  look  at  this 
valley  now,  what  it  was  then.  Nothing  in  it,  except  a 
little  mud  fort  in  the  middle  ;  and  into  that  we  all 
crowded,  more  like  wild  beasts  than  human  beings. 
But  I  was  never  so  happy  in  my  hfe.  Many  a  day,  I 
only  had  a  crust  of  bread  to  eat ;  but  it  was  just  as  if 
God  was  there  with  us,  all  the  time." 

The  child  did  not  know  at  this  time,  nor  till  long 
afterward,  that  polygamy  was  peculiar  to  the  Mormons. 
When  she  first  found  out  the  truth,  it  seemed  to  her, 
she  said,  "  just  as  if  she  had  been  taken  out  of  this 
world  into  some  other :    every  thing  was  so  changed." 

When  she  was  twenty-two  years  old,  her  husband 
took  a  second  wife.  This  was  twenty-six  years  ago. 
The  two  women  hved  together  for  twenty  years,  and 
brought  up  their  families  of  children  together.  One 
had  ten  children,  the  other  eight.  Then  they  sepa- 
rated. The  first  wife  lives  now  some  miles  from  the 
city,  on  a  small  farm.  Her  husband  comes  out  on  Sat- 
unlay  afternoon,  and  returns  on  Monday.     This  is  all 


24  BirS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

she  sees  of  him.  The  rest  of  the  time  he  lives  with  the 
second  wife  in  the  city,  where  he  holds  an  important 
position. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  that  I  saw  her.  While  I  was  talk- 
ing with  her,  the  husband  suddenly  appeared  in  the  door- 
way.    He  had  just  come  out  from  town.     "  Oh  !  there's 

Mr. ,  now,"  said  she,  rising,  and  going  to  meet 

him  as  she  would  go  to  meet  a  neighbor. 

He  shook  hands  w  ith  her,  and  said,  kindly :  "  How 
d'ye  do,  Ma  1 "  She  introduced  him  to  me  ;  and  he  sat 
down.  The  chair  was  a  little  broken,  and  creaked  under 
his  weight. 

"  Why,  Ma !  why  don't  you  have  your  chairs  fixed  ?  " 
he  said,  very  pleasantly-  But  oh  !  how  hot  my  cheeks 
felt.  "  Have  her  chairs  fixed  !  "  —  living  alone,  twenty 
miles  from  the  city,  five  miles  from  a  neighbor,  with  no 
servant  in  her  house  !  Yet  this  man  has  a  kindly  nature. 
It  was  evident  in  every  line  of  his  face.  He  is  a  man 
to  whom  it  would  be  a  grief  to  give  pain  to  any  one. 
He  is  simple-hearted,  affectionate,  pure-minded.  He  is 
also  a  man  of  some  education.  It  must  be  a  daily  sor- 
row to  him  to  see  his  children  insufficiently  provided  for 
in  any  way  ;  yet  his  means  do  not  enable  him  to  make 
eighteen  children  comfortable.  There  is  discomfort, 
deprivation  in  both  houses.    • 

"  If  a  man  brings  up  one  family  of  children,  and  pro- 
vides for  them,  I  think  that's  as  much  as  the  Lord's 
going  to  require  of  any  body,"  said  this  man's  wife  ; 
"  and,  as  for  believing  that  the  Lord's  going  to  require 
any  thing  of  woman  which  makes  them  suffer  as  polyg- 
amy does,  I  don't.  But  they  are  all  good,  earnest,  true 
men,"  she  added ;  "  and  pure  men,  too,  according  to 
their  way  of  looking  at  it.  They  are  faithful  to  their 
wives  :  there  isn't  such  a  thing  known  as  a  Mormon 
man's  going  astray  in  that  way."  She  was  most  earnest 
in  her  efforts  to  impress  me  with  this  fact,  and  with  the 
uprightness  and  sincerity  of  the  men.  Much  as  she 
hated  polygamy  herself,  and  fully  as  she  believed  it  to 
be  wrong,  she  believed  that  the  Mormon  men  were  sin- 
cere in  regarding  it  as  a  matter  of  religion. 


SALT  LAKE  CITY.  25 

''There's  many  a  man  takes  another  wife,  just  be- 
cause he  thinks  he  ought  to,"  said  she.  "  I  have 
known  such  cases  every  year.  The  Church  says  they 
must." 

She  had  not  heard  of  that  petition  from  the  women  of 
Utah  to  the  United  States  Government,  which  has  been 
regarded  at  the  East  as  proving  so  conclusively  that 
Mormon  women  are  all  anxious  for  deliverance  from  the 
tyranny  of  the  Church.  Neither  had  the  other  woman 
of  whom  I  have  spoken  heard  of  this  petition  ;  and,  as 
both  these  women  are  women  of  position  and  influ- 
ence, I  could  not  but  regard  their  ignorance  of  the 
petition  as  a  significant  fact,  pointing  strongly  toward 
the  truth  of  the  assertion  of  the  Church  newspaper,  that 
the  signatures  were  not  all  genuine. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  "  you'd  never  get  one-third,  even,  of 
the  women  who  don't  like  polygamy  to  petition  against  it. 
They  believe  it's  right,  much  as  they  hate  it.  And  the 
rest  of  the  women,  they  take  it  up,  just  as  the  martyrs 
went  to  the  stakes,  thinking  they'll  get  heaven  by  it, 
and  they  can't  get  it  any  other  way  ;  and  they  wouldn't 
have  it  done  away  with,  if  they  could.  The  Church 
teaches  them  that  no  woman  can  go  to  Heaven,  unless 
she  is  married  to  some  man." 

"  Why,  I  myself  don't  want  polygamy  put  an  end  to 
any  such  way,"  said  she,  flushing.  "  I  believe  God'll 
stop  it  somehow,  sooner  or  later  ;  but  not  in  one  day  ! 

Why,  I  should  think  ."     But  she  could  not  tin- 

ish  the  sentence.  I  finished  it  for  her,  however,  in  my 
heart ;  and  I  wonder  that  any  persons  can  be  so  unthink- 
ing as  not  to  realize  the  cruelty  of  any  hasty  legislation 
which  would  add  one  more  burden  of  fear  or  sense  of 
humiliation  to  the  loads  which  these  poor  women  are 
already  bearing. 

The  next  day,  I  heard  that  petition  read  in  the  Taber- 
nacle. At  the  close  of  the  afternoon  services.  Histo- 
rian Smith  —  the  man  whom  I  have  already  described  — • 
came  forward,  holding  a  paper  in  his  hand.  He  still 
wore  the  blazing  red  scarf,  and  still  looked,  as  he  did 


26  BITS   OF  TEA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

in  the   cars,    the   very   incarnation   of  sensuality  and 
tyranny. 

With  a  few  introductory  remarks,  setting  forth  that 
the  Church  thought  it  best  to  acquaint  her  children  with 
all  the  weapons  and  wiles  of  her  adversaries,  he  read 
the  paper.  He  read  it  slowly,  dehberately,  giving  promi- 
nent and  scornful  emphasis  to  the  sentences  which 
spoke  of  the  terror  in  which  the  women  lived.  He  men- 
tioned the  number  of  signatures,  adding,  impressively  : 
"  The  names  can  be  identified  by  all  of  you  ;  many 
of  them  are  the  names  of  young  children."  He  then 
made  a  short  address,  evidently  for  the  benefit  of  the 
strangers  present,  giving  a  brief  statement  of  the 
grounds  on  which  the  Church  inculcates  polygamy. 
The  argument  was  based  on  the  Bible  prophecy  of  the 
days  in  which  seven  women  should  lay  hold  of  one 
man,  imploring  him  to  take  away  "their  reproach." 
The  term  "  reproach  "  was  interpreted  to  mean  child- 
lessness, and  was  dwelt  upon  strenuously;  and  he  re- 
ferred to  the  remarkable  healthfulness  and  strength  of 
the  Mormon  children  as  proof  that  polygamy  might  be 
upheld  on  physical  as  well  as  Scriptural  grounds. 

During  the  whole  of  these  extraordinary  proceedings, 
I  studied  the  faces  of  the  men  and  women  about  me. 
At  many  parts  of  the  petition,  they  exchanged  satirical 
and  amused  glances  with  each  other,  especially  at  the 
statements  in  regard  to  the  petitioners'  terrors.  While 
the  doctrine  of  polygamy  was  expounded  and  justified, 
they  looked  serious,  attentive,  and  satisfied.  Certainly, 
so  far  as  the  expression  of  an  audience  could  be  a 
test,  the  Mormon  Church  was  justified  by  her  followers 
that  afternoon.  I  studied  also  the  faces  of  the  priest- 
hood. They  sit  in  a  body,  on  a  raised  platform,  which 
fronts  the  congregation.  In  the  centre  of  this  plat- 
form are  three  wide  seats,  with  raised  desks,  where 
Brigham  Young  and  those  nearest  him  in  authority  sit. 
As  the  priests  sit  facing  these  central  seats,  their  side 
faces  are  in  full  view.  I  found  myself  insensibly  com- 
paring them  with  the  faces  of  the  Romish  priesthood,  as 


SALT  LAKE  CITY.  27 

I  used  to  see  it  in  the  streets  of  Rome.  Here  were  the 
same  two  types  of  face,  —  the  credulous,  simple,  and 
devoted;  and  the  tyrannical  and  unscrupulous.  They 
were,  almost  without  exception,  plain,  hardworking-look- 
ing men,  in  coarse  clothes  ;  but,  if  they  had  only  been 
robed  in  black  and  violet  and  scarlet,  they  would  have 
seemed  in  no  wise  out  of  place  in  the  College  of  the 
Propaganda.  Tyranny  and  fanaticism  work  with  the 
same  tools,  and  write  the  same  handwriting,  all 
the  world  over.  If  one  could  banish  from  his  mind  the 
undercurrent  of  consciousness  of  this  great  wrong  of 
ecclesiastical  domination  in  Salt  Lake  City,  it  would 
be  one  of  the  most  delightful  spots  in  the  world. 
The  air,  the  sunshine,  the  snowy  mountains,  the  blue 
lake,  the  waving  orchards,  the  bright  flowers,  and  the 
neat,  cosey  little  homes, — all  make  up  a  picture  of 
beauty  and  thrift  and  peace  rarely  equalled.  But  there 
is  no  escape  from  the  shadow  ;  there  is  no  forgetting 
the  wrong. 

However,  all  diseases  are  self-limited.  Polygamy  is 
as  sure  to  disappear  before  civilization  as  flails  are  to  go 
down  before  steam-threshers.  A  shrewd  old  man,  who 
had  lived  in  Salt  Lake  City  for  several  years,  said  to  me, 
one  morning,  pointing  to  the  windows  of  a  milliner's 
shop,  before  which  we  stood :  "  They  needn't  trouble 
themselves  to  legislate  about  polygamy.  This  sort  of 
stuff,"  — waving  his  hand  back  and  forth  in  front  of  the 
bonnets  and  ribbons,  — "  this  sort  of  stuff  will  put  an 
end  to  it.  It's  putting  an  end  to  monogamy,  for  that 
matter  !  It  will  very  soon  be  here,  as  it  is  elsewhere, 
more  than  most  men  can  do  to  support  even  one 
wife !  » 


28  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME, 


FROM  OGDEN  TO  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

AT  Ogden  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad  ends  and  the 
Central  Pacific  Railroad  begins.  The  Pullman 
drawing-room  cars  also  end,  and  the  silver  palace-cars 
begin  ;  and  we  are  told  that  there  are  good  reasons 
why  no  mortal  can  engage  a  section  of  a  sleeping-car 
to  be  ready  for  him  at  Ogden  on  any  particular  day. 
"  Through  passengers "  must  be  accommodated  first. 
*'  Through  passengers,"  no  doubt,  see  the  justice  of 
this.  Way  passengers  cannot  be  expected  to.  But 
we  do  most  emphatically  reahze  the  bearing  of  it  when 
we  arrive  at  Ogden  from  Salt  Lake  City  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  and  find  anxious  men  standing 
patiently  in  line,  forty  deep,  before  the  ticket-office, 
biding  their  chance  of  having  to  sit  up  for  the  two 
nights  which  must  be  spent  on  the  road  between  Ogden 
and  San  Francisco.  It  was  a  desperate  hour  for 
that  ticket  agent ;  and  the  crowd  was  a  study  for  an 
artist.  Most  to  be  pitied  of  all  were  the  married  men, 
whose  nervous  wives  kept  plucking  them  by  the  coat- 
tails  and  drawing  them  out  of  the  line  once  in  five 
minutes,  to  propose  utterly  impracticable  devices  for 
circumventing  or  hurrying  the  ticket-agent.  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  reveal  things  which  should  be  hid,  or 
whether  the  information  would  be  of  value  upon  all 
days  ;  but  there  is  a  side  window  to  that  ticket-office, 
and  a  superintendent  sometimes  stands  near  it,  and,  by 
lifting  a  green  curtain,  conversations  can  be  carried  on, 
and  money  and  tickets  passed  in  and  out.  Neither  do 
1  know  how  m.any,  if  any,  of  the  forty  unfortunates 
rode  all  the  way  bedless  to  San  Francisco  ;  for  our  first 
anxiety  as  to  whether  we  should  each  get  a  "  section  ' 


FROM  OGDEN  TO  SAN  FRANCISCO.         29 

was  soon  merged  in  our  second,  which  was  almost  as 
great  —  what  we  should  do  with  ourselves  in  it.  A 
latent  sense  of  justice  restrains  me  from  attempting  to 
describe  a  section.  It  is  impossible  to  be  just  to  a 
person  or  a  thing  disliked.  I  dislike  the  sleeping-car 
sections  more  than  I  ever  have  disliked,  ever  "shnll 
dislike,  or  ever  can  dislike  any  thing  in  the  world. 
Therefore,  I  will  not  describe  one.  I  will  speak  only 
of  the  process  of  going  to  bed  and  getting  up  in  it. 
Fancy  a  mattress  laid  on  the  bottom  shelf  in  your  cup- 
board, and  the  cupboard-door  shut.  You  have  previously 
made  choice  among  your  possessions  which  ones  you 
will  have  put  underneath  your  shelf,  where  you  cannot 
get  at  them,  and  which  ones  you  must  have,  and  will 
therefore  keep  all  night  on  the  foot  of  your  bed  (that  is, 
on  your  own  feet).  Accurate  memory  and  judicious 
selection,  under  such  circumstances,  are  impossible. 
No  sooner  is  the  cupboard-door  shut  than  you  remem- 
ber that  several  indispensable  articles  are  under  the  shelf. 
But  the  door  is  locked,  and  you  can't  get  out.  By 
which  I  mean  that  the  porter  has  put  up  the  curtain 
in  front  of  your  section,  and  of  the  opposite  section, 
and  you  have  partially  undressed,  and  can't  step  out 
into  the  narrow  aisle  without  encountering  the  English 
gentleman,  who  is  going  by  to  heat  water  on  the  stove 
at  the  end  of  the  car ;  and,  even  if  you  didn't  encounter 
him,  you  can^'t  get  at  the  things  which  have  been  stowed 
away  under  your  shelf,  unless  you  lie  down  at  full  length 
on  the  floor  to  reach  them  ;  and  you  can't  lie  down  at 
full  length  on  the  floor,  because  most  of  the  floor  is 
under  your  opposite  neighbor's  shelf.  So  I  said  the 
dooi  was  locked  simply  to  express  the  hopelessness  of 
the  situation.  Then  you  sit  cross-legged  on  your  bed  ; 
because,  of  course,  you  can't  sit  on  the  edge  of  the 
shelf  after  the  cupboard-door  is  shut — that  is,  the  cur- 
tain is  put  up  so  close  to  the  edge  of  your  bed  that,  if 
you  do  sit  there  in  the  natural  human  manner,  your 
knees  and  feet  will  be  in  the  way  of  the  English  gen- 
tleman when  he  passes.     Sitting  cross-legged  on  your 


30  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

bed,  you  take  off  a  few  of  your  clothes,  if  you  have 
courage  ;  and  then  you  cast  about  to  think  what  you 
shall  do  with  them.  It  is  quite  light  in  the  cupboard, 
for  there  is  a  little  kerosene  lamp  in  a  tiny  glass-doored 
niche  in  the  wall  ;  and  it  gives  light  enough  to  show 
you  that  there  isn't  a  hook  or  an  edge  of  any  thing  on 
which  a  single  article  can  be  hung.  You  gaze  drearily 
around  on  the  smooth,  shining  panels  of  hard  wood.  It 
is  a  very  handsome  cupboard,  a  good  deal  plated,  be- 
sides being  made  of  fine  hard  woods,  into  which  you 
can't  drive  even  a  pin.  At  last  you  have  an  inspiration. 
You  stand  up  on  the  edge  of  your  bed,  and,  grasping 
the  belt  of  your  dress  firmly  in  each  hand,  boldly  thrust 
one  arm  out  above  the  curtain,  and  hook  the  belt  over 
the  curtain-rod.  It  swings  safely  !  You  sink  back 
triumphant  and  exhausted;  come  down  on  your  travel- 
ling-bag, and  upset  it ;  the  cork  comes  out  of  the  harts- 
horn bottle,  and  the  hartshorn  runs  into  the  borax.  Of 
course,  you  can't  cross  the  Alkali  Desert  without  a 
good  supply  of  counter  alkalies.  By  the  time  you  have 
saved  the  remainder  of  these,  and  propped  the  travel- 
ling bag  up  again,  you  are  frightfully  cramped  from 
sitting  so  long  cross-legged.  So  you  lie  out  straight  a 
few  minutes  to  rest.  Then  you  get  up  again,  more 
cautiously  than  before,  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and 
hook  and  pin  a  few  more  garments  around  the  curtain- 
rod.  Just  as  you  are  looking  on  the  last  one,  and  feel- 
ing quite  elated,  the  car  gives  a  sudden  jerk,  and  out 
you  go,  head  foremost  into  the  aisle  into  the  very  arms 
of  the  English  gentleman.  Being  an  English  gentle- 
man, he  would  look  the  other  way  if  he  could  ;  but  how 
can  he  .'*  He  must  hold  you  up  !  You  don't  know  just 
how  you  clamber  back.  Nothing  seems  very  clear  to 
you  for  some  minutes  except  the  English  gentleman's 
face,  which  is  indelibly  stamped  on  your  brain. 

You  don't  sit  up  for  the  next  five  or  six  minutes,  nor 
make  a  sound.  Then  you  reflect  that  the  night  is 
really  to  be  ten  hours  long,  and  that  there  are  hairpins 
and  hair.     There  is  no  need  of  greater  explicitness. 


FROM  OGDEN  TO  SAN  FRANCISCO.         3 « 

The  feeblest  imagination  can  supply  details  and 
dilemmas.  You  sit  up  again,  and  soon  become  ab- 
sorbed in  necessary  transactions.  You  glance  up  to 
the  left !  Horrors  upon  horrors  !  The  cupboard-door 
has  suddenly  swung  off  its  hinges  !  That  is,  the  flank 
piece  of  the  curtain,  which  is  intended  to  turn  a  corner 
at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  shut  you  oif  from  your 
neighbor  in  the  next  section,  being  not  wide  enough, 
and  having  no  sort  of  contrivance  to  fasten  it  to  the 
wooden  partition,  has  sHd  along  on  the  rod,  and  left  you 
just  as  much  exposed  to  the  eyes  of  all  passers-by  as 
if  your  cupboard  had  no  door  at  all.  You  drop  —  well 
—  all  you  have  in  your  hands,  seize  the  curtain  and 
hold  it  in  place  with  your  thumb  and  finger,  while  you 
grope  for  a  pin  to  pin  it  with.  Pin  it,  indeed  !  To  what  ? 
I  have  before  mentioned  that  the  cupboard  is  of  panels 
of  highly-polished  hard  wood  and  silver  plating.  The 
cars  are  called  "silver"  and  "palace  "for  this  reason. 
At  last  you  pin  it  to  the  upper  edge  of  your  pillow. 
That  seems  insecure ;  especially  so,  taking  into  account 
the  fact  that  you  are  a  restless  sleeper.  But  it  is  the 
only  thing  to  be  done.  Having  done  this,  you  look 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  find  a  similar  yawning 
aperture  there.  You  pin  this  flank  curtain  to  the  blan- 
ket, and  pin  the  blanket  to  the  mattress.  You  do  aL 
these  things,  getting  about  on  your  knees,  with  the  car 
shaking  and  rocking  violently  over  an  unusually  rough 
bit  of  road.  When  the  flap  is  firmly  pinned  at  the 
head  and  at  the  foot,  you  lean  back  against  the  middle  of 
the  back  of  your  cupboard,  to  rest.  The  glass  door 
outside  your  little  lamp  is  very  hot.  You  burn  your 
elbow  on  it,  and  involuntarily  scream. 

*'  What  is  the  matter,  ma'am  t "  says  the  friendly, 
conductor,  who  happens  to  be  passing.  You  start  up. 
That  is,  you  would,  if  you  could  ;  but  you  can't,  because 
you  are  sitting  cross-legged,  and  have  the  cramp  be- 
sides. But  it  is  too  late.  The  cupboard-door  is  split 
in  the  middle,  and  there  are  the  conductor's  sympathiz- 
ing eyes  looking  directly  in  upon  you.     It  is  evidently 


32  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME, 

impossible  to  have  the  curtains  made  tight  at  the  head 
and  foot  of  your  shelf  without  their  parting  in  the  mid- 
dle. They  are  too  scant.  At  this  despair  sets  in. 
However,  you  unpin  the  flap  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
repin  it  so  as  to  leave  only  a  small  crack,  through  which 
you  hope  your  neighbor  will  be  too  busy  to  look.  Then 
you  pin  the  two  curtains  together  firmly  in  the  middle, 
all  the  way  up  and  down.  Then  you  lie  down,  with 
your  head  on  your  travelling  bag,  and  resolve  to  do  no 
more  till  the  cars  stop.  You  fall  asleep  from  exhaus- 
tion. When  you  awake,  darkness  reigns  ;  a  heavy  and 
poisonous  air  fills  your  cupboard  ;  the  car  is  dashing  on 
through  the  night  faster  than  ever.  Timidly  you  unpin 
the  curtains,  and  peer  out.  The  narrow  aisle  is  cur- 
tained from  one  end  to  the  other ;  boots  are  set  out  at 
irregular  intervals  ;  snores  rise  in  hideous  chorus  about 
you  ;  everybody  has  gone  to  bed,  nobody  has  opened 
his  window,  and  most  of  the  ventilators  are  shut.  With 
all  the  haste  you  can  make,  you  try  to  open  the  window 
at  the  foot  of  your  bed.  Alas  !  while  the  day  lasted  you 
neglected  to  learn  the  trick  of  the  fastening ;  now  the 
night  has  come,  in  which  no  man  can  undo  a  car-window. 
You  take  the  skin  off  your  fingers  ;  you  bruise  your 
knuckles  ;  you  wrench  your  shoulder  and  back  with 
superhuman  strains,  —  all  the  time  sitting  cross-legged. 
At  last,  just  as  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  follow 
the  illustrious  precedent  of  Mrs.  Kemble's  elbow,  you 
hit  the  spring  by  accident,  and,  in  your  exultation,  push 
the  window  wide  open.  A  fierce  and  icy  blast  sweeps 
in,  and  your  mouth  is  filled  with  cinders  in  a  second. 
This  will  never  do.  Now,  how  to  get  the  window 
partly  down  !  This  takes  longer  than  it  took  to  get  it 
up  ;  but  you  finally  succeed.  By  this  time  you  are  so 
exhausted  that  absolute  indifference  to  all  things  except 
rest  seizes  you.  You  slip  in  between  the  sheets,  and 
shut  your  eyes.  As  you  doze  off",  you  have  a  vague 
impression  that  you  hear  something  tumble  off  the  foot 
of  the  bed  into  the  aisle.  You  hope  it  is  your  boots, 
and  not  your  travelling-bag,  with  the  bottles  in  it ;  but 


FROM  OGDEN  TO  SAN  FRANCISCO.         33 

you  would  not  get  up  again  to  see,  —  no,  not  if  the 
whole  car-load  of  passengers  were  to  be  waked  up  by 
a  pungent  odor  of  ammonia  and  alcohol  proceeding 
from  your  cupboard.  Strange  to  say,  you  sleep. 
Your  dreams  are  nightmares,  —  but  still  you  sleep 
through  till  daylight. 

As  soon  as  you  awake  you  spring  up  and  listen.  All 
is  still.  Some  of  the  snores  still  continue.  You  put 
up  a  fervent  ejaculation  of  gratitude  that  you  have 
waked  so  early.  You  resume  the  cross-legged  position, 
and  look  about  you  for  your  possessions.  It  was  your 
travelling-bag,  after  all,  which  fell  off  the  shelf.  You 
find  it  upside  down  on  the  floor  in  the  aisle.  You 
find,  also,  one  boot.  The  other  cannot  be  found.  A 
horrible  fear  seizes  you  that  it  has  gone  out  of  the 
window.  As  calmly  as  your  temperament  will  permit, 
you  go  on  putting  your  remains  together.  The  car  is 
running  slowly ;  and,  all  things  considered,  you  think 
you  are  doing  pretty  well,  when  suddenly  you  encoun- 
ter, in  a  glistening  panel  on  the  back  of  your  cupboard, 
close  to  the  head  of  your  bed,  a  sight  which  throws  you 
into  new  perplexity.  There  is  —  yes,  it  is  —  the  face 
of  the  English  gentleman.  But  what  does  it  mean  that 
the  eyes  are  closed  and  a  red  silk  handkerchief  is  bound 
about  his  florid  brow  ?  While  you  stare  incredulously, 
the  face  turns  on  its  pillow.  A  sleepy  hand  stretches 
up  and  rubs  one  eye.  The  eye  opens,  gazes  languidly 
about,  closes  again,  and  the  English  gentleman  sinks 
off  into  his  morning  nap.  You  seize  your  pillow,  prop 
it  up  against  the  shining  panel,  so  as  to  cut  off  this 
extremely  involuntary  view ;  then  you  stop  dressing,  and 
think  out  the  phenomenon.  It  is  very  simple.  The 
partitions  between  the  sections  do  not  join  the  walls  of 
the  car  by  two  inches  or  more.  The  polished  panel 
just  behind  this  space  is  a  perfect  mirror,  reflecting  a 
part  of  each  section  ;  then  you  glance  guiltily  down  to 
the  similar  mirror  at  the  foot  of  your  bed.  Sure 
enough,  the  same  thing !  There  you  see  the  head  of 
an  excellent  German  frau.  whom  you  had  observed  the 
3 


34  BITS  OF   TRA  l^EL   A  T  HOME. 

day  before.  She  also  is  sound  asleep.  You  prop 
your  other  pillow  up  in  that  corner,  lest  she  should 
awake  ;  and  then  you  hurry  on  your  clothes  stealthily 
"•as  a  thief.  The  boot,  however,  cannot  be  found,  and 
you  are  at  last  constrained  to  go  to  the  dressing-room 
without  it.  The  dressing-room  is  at  the  further  end  of 
the  car.  Early  as  you  are,  fellow-women  are  there 
before  you  —  three  of  them  ;  one  in  possession  of  the 
washbowl,  two  waiting  for  their  turn.  You  fall  into 
line,  thankful  for  being  only  the  fourth.  You  sit  bash- 
fully on  somebody's  valise,  while  these  strangers  make 
their  toilets.  You  reflect  on  the  sweet  and  wonderful 
power  of  adaptation  which  disdnguishes  some  natures  ; 
the  guileless  trust  in  the  kindliness  of  their  own  sex 
which  enables  some  women  to  treat  all  other  women  as 
if  they  were  their  sisters.  The  three  are  relating  their 
experiences. 

"Well,  I  got  along  very  well,"  says  one,  "till  some- 
body opened  a  window  ;  and  after  that  I  thought  I 
should  freeze  to  death.  My  husband,  he  called  the  con- 
ductor up,  and  they  shut  the  ventilators  ;  but  I  just  shiv- 
ered all  night.     Real  good  soap  this  is  ;  ain't  it,  now  ?  " 

You  feel  yourself  blushing  with  guilty  consciousness 
of  that  open  window.     But  you  brave  it  out  silently. 

"  I  wa'n't  too  cold,"  said  the  washbowl  incumbent, 
meditatively  holding  her  false  teeth  under  the  faucet, 
and  changing  them  deftly  from  side  to  side,  to  wash 
them  well.  "  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  did  happen  to  me. 
In  the  middle  o'  the  night  I  felt  suthin'  against  my 
head,  right  on  the  very  top  o'nt.  And  what  do  you 
think  it  was  ?  'Twas  the  feet  of  the  man  in  the  next 
section  to  ou'rn  !  Well,  sez  I,  this  is  more'n  I  can 
stand;  and  I  give 'em  such  a  push.  I  reckon  he 
waked  up,  for  I  never  felt  'em  no  more." 

At  this  you  fly.  You  cannot  trust  your  face  any 
longer. 

'•  Got  tired  o'  waitin'?"  calls  out  No.  3.  "You  can 
have  my  turn,  if  you're  in  a  hurry.  We've  got  all  day 
before  us,"  and  the  three  women  chuckle  drearily. 


FROM   OGDEN  TG  SAN  FRANCISCO.         Z\ 

When  you  reach  your  cupboard,  Frank,  the  hand 
some  black  porter,  has  already  transformed  your  bed 
into  two  chairs.  The  bedding  is  all  put  away  out  oi 
sight ;  and  there,  conspicuously  awaiting  you,  stands 
the  missing  boot,  on  a  chair.  You  are  not  proud  of 
your  boots.  For  good  reasons  you  decided  to  wear 
them  on  this  journey  ;  but  false  shame  wrings  you  as 
you  wonder  if  everybody  has  seen  how  very  shabby 
that  shoe  is. 

The  English  gentleman  is  in  the  aisle,  putting  on  his 
boots.  The  German  frau  is  bustling  about  in  a  very 
demi-dress.  Nobody  seems  to  mind  anybody ;  and, 
now  that  the  thing  is  over  with,  you  laugh  to  think  how 
droll  it  all  was.     And  so  the  day  begins. 

We  are  told  that  in  the  night  we  have  passed  over 
the  Great  American  Desert,  —  sixty  square  miles  of 
alkali  sand.  This,  then,  on  which  we  look  out  now,  is 
not  the  desert.  We  had  thought  it  must  be.  All  we 
can  see  is  sand,  or  sage-brush,  or  bunch-grass.  Yet  it 
is  not  dreary.  The  tints  are  exquisite.  "We  shall 
not  be  weary  of  it  if  it  lasts  all  day,"  we  said.  And  it 
did  last  all  day.  All  day  long  tints  of  gray  and  brown  ; 
sometimes  rocky  ravines,  with  low,  dark  growths  on 
their  sides  ;  sometimes  valleys,  which  the  guide-book 
said  were  fertile,  but  which  to  us  looked  just  as  gray 
and  brown  as  the  plains.  We  passed  a  dozen  or  more 
small  towns,  all  looking  alike,  all  looking  far  more  deso- 
late than  the  silent  plains.  A  wide  and  dusty  space, 
like  a  ploughed  field,  only  hardened  and  flattened  ;  rows 
or  groups  of  small  unpainted  wooden  houses,  all  trying 
to  face  the  railway  station,  and  most  bearing  big  signs 
on  their  front  of  something  to  sell  or  to  hire  or  to 
drink  ;  not  a  tree,  not  a  flower,  not  a  protecting  fence, 
—  that  is  the  thing  called  town  all  along  the  road  of  the 
first  day's  journey  westward  from  Ogden.  But  at  sun- 
set we  came  to  something  else.  We  had  been  climbing 
up.  Snow-topped  mountains  were  in  sight  all  about 
us.  The  air  was  clear  and  cold.  "  Humboldt  Station  " 
was  the  name  of  the  station  to  which  we  had  been 


36  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME, 

looking  forward  for  some  hours,  simply  because  it 
meant  "supper."  But,  when  we  stepped  out  of  the 
cars,  thoughts  of  supper  fled.  Four  thousand  feet 
ibove  the  sea,  among  alkali  sands  and  stony  volcanic 
beds,  there  stood  a  brilliant  green  oasis.  Clover  fields, 
young  trees,  and  vegetable  gardens  surrounded  the 
little  house.  In  front  was  a  fountain,  which  sparkled 
in  the  sun.  Around  it  was  a  broad  rim  of  grass  and 
white  clover.  An  iron  railing  enclosed  it.  It  was  a 
pathetic  sight  to  see  rough  men,  even  men  from  the 
emigrant-car,  stretching  their  hands  through  the  railing 
to  pick  a  blade  of  grass  or  a  clover-blossom.  One 
great,  burly  fellow,  lifted  up  his  little  girl,  and,  swing- 
ing her  over  the  iron  spikes,  set  her  down  in  the  grass, 
saying :  "  There  !  I'd  like  to  see  ye  steppin'  on 
green  grass  once  more."  It  was  a  test  of  loyalty  to 
green  fields,  and  there  were  no  traitors.  We  had  not 
dreamed  that  we  had  grown  so  hungry  for  sight  of  true 
summer.  Just  as  the  train  was  about  to  rtart,  I  remem- 
bered a  gentle-faced  woman  in  our  car  who  had  not 
come  out.  I  reached  into  the  grassy  rim,  without  look- 
ing, and  picked  a  clover-leaf  to  carry  her  as  token.  I 
gave  it  to  her,  without  having  looked  closely  at  it. 

"  And  a  four-leaved  clover,  too  ! "  she  exclaimed,  as 
she  took  it. 

It  was  the  first  four-leaved  clover  I  ever  found.  I 
have  spent  hours  enough  to  count  up  into  weeks  in 
searching  for  them.  I  took  back  my  gift  with  a  super- 
stitious reverence  for  it,  as  omen  of  our  journey,  and 
also  as  a  fitting  memento  of  that  bright  oasis  which  pa- 
tience had  created  in  the  desert,  and  named  by  the  name 
of  a  good  and  great  man. 

Next  morning  we  waked  up  in  the  Sierras.  We  were 
ne.irly  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  As  far  as  we 
could  see  on  either  hand  rose  snowy  tops  of  mountains. 
We  were  on  them,  below  them,  among  them,  all  at  once, 
Some  were  covered  with  pines  and  firs  ;  some  were 
glistening  and  bare.  We  looked  down  into  ravines  and 
gorges  which  were  so  deep  they  were  black.     Tops  oi 


FROM  OGDEN  TO  SAN  FRANCISCO.         37 

firs,  which  we  knew  must  be  hundreds  of  feet  hifrh, 
seemed  to  make  only  a  solid  mossy  bed  below  us.  The 
sun  shone  brilliantly  on  the  crests  and  upper  slopes  ; 
now  and  then  a  sharp  gleam  of  light  showed  a  lake  or 
a  river  far  down  among  the  dark  and  icy  walls.  It 
seemed  almost  as  if  these  lights  came  from  our  train, 
as  if  we  bore  a  gigantic  lantern,  which  flashed  its  light 
in  and  out  as  we  went  winding  and  leaping  from  depth 
to  depth,  from  peak  to  peak.  I  think  nothing  could 
happen  in  life  which  could  make  any  human  being  who 
had  looked  out  on  this  scene  forget  it.  Presently  we 
entered  the  snow-sheds.  These  were  dreary,  but  could 
not  wholly  interrupt  the  grandeur.  Fancy  miles  upon 
miles  of  covered  bridge,  with  black  and  grimy  snow- 
drifts, or  else  still  blacker  and  grimier  gutters  of  water, 
on  each  side  the  track  (for  the  snow-sheds  keep  out  only 
part  of  the  snow)  ;  through  the  seams  between  the 
boards,  sometimes  through  open  spaces  where  boards 
have  fallen,  whirling  glimpses  of  snow-drifts  outside, 
of  tops  of  trees,  of  tops  of  mountains,  of  bottoms  of 
canyons,  —  this  is  snow-shed  travelling.  And  there  are 
thirty-nine  miles  of  it  on  the  Central  Pacific  Railroad. 
It  was  like  being  borne  along  half  blindfolded  through 
the  upper  air.  I  fell  as  if  I  knew  how  the  Sierras  might 
look  to  eagles  flying  over  in  haste,  with  their  eyes  fixed 
on  the  sun. 

"  Breakfast  in  a  snow-shed  this  morning,  ladies," 
said  Frank,  our  chamber-maid.  True  ;  the  snow-shed 
branched  off  like  a  mining  gallery,  widened,  and  took  in 
the  front  of  a  Httle  house,  whose  door  was  set  wide 
open,  and  whose  breakfast-bell  was  ringing  as  we 
jumped  out  of  the  cars.  We  walked  up  to  the  dining- 
room  over  icy  rock.  Through  openings  at  each  side, 
where  the  shed  joined  the  house,  we  looked  out  upon 
fields  of  snow,  and  firs,  and  rocky  peaks  ;  but  the  sun 
shone  like  the  siin  of  June,  and  we  had  not  a  sensation 
of  chill.  Could  one  be  pardoned  for  remembering  and 
saying  that  even  at  this  supreme  moment  there  was  ad- 
ditional gladness  from  the  fact  that  the  trout  also  were 


38  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

warm,  being  on  blazers  ?  A  good  breakfast  on  blazers, 
in  a  snow-shed,  seven  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  !  But 
there  was  one  man  in  the  train  (all  honor  to  his  line) 
who  breakfasted  on  other  fare  than  trout  and  canned 
apricots.  Just  as  we  were  about  to  get  off,  I  saw  him 
come  leaping  into  the  snow-shed  from  a  high  snow-drift. 
He  carried  a  bi^  staff  in  his  hand. 

*'Oh  !  "  said  I,  "you  have  been  off  on  the  snow." 
"  Indeed,    have   I  !  "  exclaimed  he.     "  So  far  that   I 
thought  I  should  be  left.     And  it  '  bears  '  everywhere. 
I  jumped  on  the  '  crust '  with  all  my  weight." 

Almost  immediately  we  began  to  descend.  In  a  few 
miles  we  had  gone  down  three  thousand  feet,  the  brakes 
all  the  while  holding  us  back,  lest  we  should  roll  too 
fast.  Flowers  sprang  up  into  sight,  as  if  conjured  by  a 
miracle  out  of  the  ice  ;  green  spaces,  too,  and  little 
branches,  with  trees  and  shrubs  around  them.  The  great 
American  Canyon  seemed  to  open  its  arms,  finding  us 
bold  enough  to  enter.  Its  walls  are  two  thousand  feet 
high,  and  are  rifted  by  other  canyons  running  down, 
each  with  its  tiny  silver  thread  of  water,  till  they  are 
lost  in  the  abysses  of  fir-trees  below.  The  mining  vil- 
lages looked  gay  as  gardens.  Every  shanty  had  vines  and 
shrubs  and  flowers  about  it.  On  all  the  hillsides  were 
long,  narrow  wooden  troughs,  full  of  running  water,  like 
miniature  canals,  but  swift,  hke  brooks.  One  fancied 
that  the  water  had  a  golden  gleam  in  it,  left  from  the 
precious  gold  it  had  washed.  Still  down,  down,  out  of 
snow  into  bloom,  out  of  winter  into  spring,  so  suddenly 
that  the  winter  and  the  spring  seemed  equally  unreal, 
and  we  half  looked  for  summer's  grain  and  autumn's 
vintage,  station  by  station.  Nothing  could  have  seemed 
too  soon,  too  startling.  We  doubled  Cape  Horn,  in  the 
sunny  weather,  as  gaily  as  if  we  had  been  on  a  light- 
boat's  deck  ;  but  we  were  sitting,  standing,  cHnging  on 
the  steps  and  platforms  of  a  heavy  railroad  train,  whose 
track  bent  at  a  sharp  angle  around  a  rocky  wall  which 
rose  up  hundreds  of  feet  straight  in  the  air,  and  reached 
down  hundreds  of  feet  into  the  green  valley  beneath. 


FROM  OGDEN    TO  SAN  FRANCISCO.         39 

A  flaw  in  an  inch  of  iron,  and  the  train  would  be  lying 
at  the  bottom  of  the  wall,  broken  into  fine  bits.  But, 
whirling  around  the  perilous  bend,  one  had  only  a  sense 
of  glee.     After-thoughts  give  it  another  name. 

We  reached  Colfax  at  noon  of  midsummer.  Accord- 
ing to  all  calendars,  there  had  been  months  between 
our  breakfast  and  our  dinner.  Men  and  boys  ran  up 
and  down  in  the  cars,  offering  us  baskets  of  ripe  straw- 
berries and  huge  bunches  of  red,  white,  and  pink  roses. 
Gay  placards,  advertising  circuses  and  concerts,  were 
on  the  walls  and  fences  of  Colfax.  Yellow  stages  stood 
ready  to  carry  people  over  smooth,  red  roads,  which 
were  to  be  seen  winding  off  in  many  ways.  "  Grass 
Valley,"  "  You  Bet,"  and  "  Little  York  "  were  three  of 
the  names.  Summer,  and  slang,  and  history  all  beckon- 
ing. 

Still  down.  The  valleys  widen  to  plains,  the  snow- 
topped  mountains  grow  lower  and  dimmer  and  bluer,  as 
they  fall  back  into  horizon  lines.  Our  road  runs  through 
fields  of  grain  and  grass,  wild  oats  wave  almost  up  to 
the  very  rails,  and  the  blue  lupine  and  the  yellow 
eschscholtzia  make  masses  of  solid  blue  and  gold.  The 
Sacramento  Valley  seems  all  astir  with  wind-mills,  pump- 
ing up  water  for  Sacramento  vineyards.  Sacramento  is 
noisy,  —  hacks,  hotels,  daily  papers,  and  all.  "  Casa 
Svizera  "  on  a  dingy,  tumble-down  building  catches  our 
eye  as  we  are  hurrying  out  of  the  city  ;  it  seems  to  suit 
the  vineyards  into  which  we  go.  A  strong,  cold  wind 
blows  ;  it  is  from  the  western  sea.  We  climb  again. 
Low,  curving  hills,  lapping  and  overlapping,  and  making 
soft  liollows  of  shade,  begin  to  rise  on  either  hand.  We 
wind  in  among  them,  through  great  spaces  of  yellow,  wav- 
ing blossom  —  eschscholtzia,  yellow  lupine,  and  mustard 
by  the  acre.  It  seems  as  if  California's  hidden  gold 
had  grown  impatient  of  darkness,  and  burst  up  into 
flower  !  Twilight  finds  us  in  a  labyrinth  of  low,  bare 
hills.  They  are  higher,  though,  than  they  look,  as  we 
discover  when  we  enter  sharp  cuts  and  climb  up  canyons  ; 
but   their   outhnes   are   indescribably  soft   and  gentle. 


40  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOHTE. 

One  thinks  involuntarily  of  some  of  Beethoven's  Adagios. 
The  whole  grand  movement  of  the  vast  continent  seems 
to  have  progressed  with  harmonies  and  successions 
akin  to  those  of  a  symphony,  and  to  end  now  with  a  few 
low,  tender,  gracious  chords. 

But  the  confusion  of  the  Oaklands  ferry-boat  dis- 
sipates all  such  fancies.  It  seems  an  odd  thing  to  cross 
over  America  —  prairies,  deserts,  mountains  —  and  then, 
after  all,  be  ferried  to  the  western  edge  of  the  continent. 

But  only  so  can  we  come  to  the  city  of  San  Francisco, 
—  half  an  hour,  at  least,  on  a  little  steam-tug.  It  is 
dark,  and  it  seems  hke  any  other  steam-tug  ;  but  we 
have  crossed  the  continent. 
/  By  our  side  in  the  jostling  crowd  are  two  brothers, 
'  searching  for  each  other.  They  have  not  met  for  twent} 
years.  How  shall  the  boys  (become  men)  know  each 
other's  faces  ?  They  do  not.  At  last  an  accidental 
word,  overheard,  reveals  them  to  each  other. 

I  looked  into  the  two  faces.  Singularly  upright,  sweet 
faces,  both  of  them  :  faces  that  one  would  trust  on  sight, 
and  love  on  knowledge.  The  brother  that  had  journeyed 
from  the  East  was  my  friend.  The  brother  that  stood 
waiting  on  the  Western  shore  was  his  twin  ;  but  he 
looked  at  least  twenty  years  the  older  man.  There  are 
spaces  wider  than  lands  can  measure  or  the  seas  fill. 
This  was  the  moment,  after  all,  and  this  was  the  thing 
which  will  always  live  in  my  memory  as  significant  of 
\  crossing  a  continent. 


THE    GEYSERS.  41 


THE   GEYSERS. 

BY  boat  from  San  Francisco  to  Vallejo.  By  cars  from 
Vallejo  to  Calistoga.  By  stao;e  from  Calistoga 
to  the  Geysers.  This  was  the  guide-book  formula.  It 
was  to  take  an  afternoon  and  a  forenoon,  and  the  night 
between  was  to  be  spent  at  Calistoga.  But  nothing  was 
said  in  the  advertisement  about  the  loveliness  of  the 
sunset  in  the  Golden  Gated  Bay,  on  which  we  were  to 
sail  to  Vallejo.  It  was  not  mentioned  that  Mount 
Tamalpais  would  be  yellow  in  mist  on  our  left,  and 
Mount  Diablo  purple  in  mist  on  our  right,  and  that  all  the 
San  Pablo  shore  would  seem  gently  floating  up  and 
down,  and  back  and  forth,  as  we  passed,  like  the  edge 
of  some  enchanted  country,  on  which  no  man  might 
land  ;  that  the  fortified  islands  in  the  bay  would  be  so 
strangely  touched  and  lit  up  by  the  level  beams  of  the 
sinking  sun  that  their  bastions  and  towers  would  only 
seem  as  still  further  token  of  an  enchanted  country  ;  and 
that,  when,  after  an  hour  and  a  half  of  this,  we  reached 
the  opening  of  the  Napa  Valley,  we  should  be  carried 
into  the  heart  of  the  very  kingdom  of  Ceres  herself,  — 
and  on  a  festival  year  too,  it  seemed  to  us,  as  we  looked 
out  of  the  car-windows,  and  saw  yellow  grain  and  green 
vines  stretching  miles  away  on  either  hand,  and  inter- 
rupted at  last  only  by  a  mountain  wall,  too  high  for  the 
grain  and  vines  to  climb.  "  Surely,  there  can  be  no 
such  other  valley  as  this  in  California  ?  "  we  said.  "  Oh, 
yes  !  much  finer  valleys  than  this,"  replied  a  statistical 
traveller  at  our  side.  "  This  is  a  small  affair.  Very  pretty, 
very  pretty.  But  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  is  fifty  miles  wide 
and  three  hundred  miles  long  !     Contains  eighteen  mil- 


4-2  BITS   OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

lion  acres  of  land  !  "  he  added,  maliciousl}-,  seeing  our 
wide-open  eyes. 

Since  that  day  we  have  journeyed  in  the  San  Joaquin 
Valley  ;  have  looked  off  over  its  boundless  yellow  seas 
of  wheat ;  have  come  upon  distant  vista  views  of  it, 
where  it  looks  so  like  one  great  ocean  line  that  no 
stranger  would  ever  dream  of  its  being  land  ;  but  not 
all  its  vastness  and  richness  can  dim  or  dwarf  the 
picture  of  beautiful,  glowing,  smihng  Napa.  The  moun- 
tain ranges  on  each  side  of  Napa  Valley  are  green  to 
the  tops  ;  but  clear-cut  against  the  sky,  as  if  they  were 
of  bare  rock.  There  is  not  a  waste  field,  a  barren  spot 
in  it.  Tall  oak  trees,  which  spread  and  droop  like  elms, 
stand  in  all  the  vineyards  and  wheat-fields.  It  seems 
impossible  to  believe  that  they  have  not  been  grouped 
and  placed  ;  but  they  have  simply  been  left  where  they 
were  found.  Each  man  has  set  his  house  in  a  park, 
and  each  village  stands  in  a  wooded  domain. 

It  was  dark  when  we  reached  Calistoga.  "  Free  car- 
riage for  the  Calistoga  Springs  Hotel,"  resounded  all 
along  the  platform  from  an  invisible  point  in  the  distance. 
It  was  only  partly  visible  when  we  reached  it  and  clam- 
bered in,  and  the  road  was  not  visible  at  all.  Neither 
was  the  hotel  fully  visible  when  we  were  asked  to  enter 
it.  It  was  the  oddest,  most  twinkhng  of  httle  starry 
spots ;  low,  ambushed  in  trees,  with  a  wide  stoop 
thatched  with  great  hemlock  boughs,  from  which  hung 
a  lantern  here  and  there.  "  No  rooms  in  the  hotel," 
the  landlord  said.  This  did  not  seem  so  strange  to  us 
next  morning,  when  we  learned  that  there  were  but  two 
sleeping-rooms  in  it.  "  But  he  had  reserved  rooms  for 
us  in  a  cottage." 

Out  into  the  darkness,  following  a  small  boy,  carrying 
two  candles  and  a  handful  of  matches,  we  went.  The 
path  wound  and  was  narrow.  Heavy  odors  of  roses 
and  honeysuckles  came  up  on  each  side.  If  we  stepped 
off  to  right  or  left,  we  were  in  soft  grass.  We  passed 
dim  shapes  of  pavilions  and  summer-houses  and  arbors. 
At  last  the  boy  swung  open  a  little  gate,  and  stepped  up 


THE    GEYSERS.  43 

on  the  piazza  of  a  house,  whose  door  stood  open.  Strik- 
ing a  match  on  the  heel  of  his  boot,  he  ht  our  candles, 
and  threw  open  the  doors  of  our  sleeping-rooms  —  two 
tiny  closets,  holding  one  bed,  one  window,  one  chair, 
one  washstand.  There  were  two  more  such  closets 
opposite  ours.  These  four  made  the  cottage  !  No 
keys,  no  bolts  !  "  How  shall  we  get  any  thing  we  want  ? 
Is  there  any  servant  in  this  house  ?  "  said  we. 

The  boy  looked  amazed.  We  were  evidently  new  to 
the  ways  of  Cahfornia  watering-places.  "  What  would 
you  like  .^  "  he  said.     "  I'll  bring  it  to  you." 

Thus  pressed,  we  discovered  that  we  really  did  not 
want  any  thing,  except  hot  water  ;  but  it  seemed  eminently 
probable  that  we  should  want  at  least  a  dozen  things  as 
soon  as  the  boy  had  vanished  in  the  thick  darkness,  and 
we  had  no  visible  or  invisible  means  of  communication 
with  him.  In  a  few  moments  came  another  boy,  guiding 
two  more  groping  travellers  into  this  dusky  retreat.  The 
doors  were  shut,  all  was  still,  save  the  delighted  mos- 
quitoes, to  whom  we  were  given  over.  It  was  a  novel 
situation.  How  far  were  we  from  the  hotel  ?  Who 
were  our  opposite  neighbors  ?  No  door  could  be 
fastened.  Our  one  window  must  be  open,  or  we  should 
smother  ;  but  it  seemed  to  be  only  two  feet  from  the 
piazza  floor  and  only  one  from  the  foot  of  our  beds. 
However,  as  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done,  we  went 
to  sleep  ;  and  in  the  morning  we  only  laughed  at  our 
fears.  Eighteen  of  these  picturesque  little  cottages 
stood  in  one  circle  around  the  hotel.  The  winding 
path,  which  had  seemed  so  long  in  the  darkness,  was 
only  a  few  rods  long.  Everybody  was  within  sound  of 
everybody  else,  and  the  cottages  and  the  summer-houses 
and  the  arbors  and  the  pavilions  were  all  in  full  blossom 
•—  roses  and  honeysuckles  and  geraniums.  It  was 
simply  a  cluster  of  bed-rooms  in  a  garden.  The  wide 
hemlock-thatched  stoop  of  the  hotel  looked  even  more 
picturesque  by  daylight  than  it  had  done  the  night  be- 
fore. Why  does  it  not  enter  into  the  heads  of  all  land- 
lords to  do  this  thing  ?     Then,  when  the  summer  heats 


44  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

are  over,  the  hemlock  boughs  can  be  burnt  up,  the  rough 
sapling  pillars  of  the  stoop  taken  down,  and  the  sun  let 
into  the  rooms.  The  dining-room  of  this  little  hotel  was 
also  very  picturesque.  The  tables  were  small  and  ar- 
ranged in  two  rows.  High  up  over  each  table  was 
swung  an  odd  banner-like  thing,  made  of  strips  of  gay 
paper,  with  fringes  of  blue,  red,  yellow,  green,  and  pink. 
All  of  these  were  connected  together  by  a  wire,  and  the 
whole  affair  could  be  moved  by  a  cord  in  the  kitchen, 
and  swung  slowly  back  and  forth  above  the  tables,  to 
keep  off  flies  and  make  a  cool  breeze.  When  it  was  in 
motion  it  made  a  very  gay  stir,  like  a  fluttering  of  paro- 
quets'- wings. 

The  "  Great  Foss  "  stood  in  the  door-way,  and  the 
Great  Foss's  horses  stood  outside  ;  six  of  them  har- 
nessed to  a  three-seated  open  wagon.  Who  is  the 
Great  Foss  ?  Ah  !  that  is  the  question  which  pressed 
upon  our  minds  when  friends  said  and  frier>ds  wrote  and 
friends  reiterated  :  "  Be  sure  and  drive  with  Foss.  That 
is  the  great  thing,  after  all,  in  the  trip  to  the  Geysers." 
All  our  cross-questioning  failed  to  elicit  any  thing  in  re- 
gard to  this  modern  Jehu,  except  the  fact  that  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  driving  six  horses  at  full  gallop  around  a 
right-angled  corner,  and  not  upsetting  his  wagon.  This 
seemed  to  us  an  equivocal  recommendation  of  a  driver 
on  a  very  dangerous  road.  Nevertheless,  we  humbly 
entreated  that  we  might  take  our  full  share  of  the  deli- 
cious risk  of  broken  legs  and  necks,  and  be  able  to  come 
away  saying  that  we  too  had  gone  at  full  gallop  around 
right-angled  corners  of  narrow  roads,  with  the  "daring 
champion  reinsman  of  the  world,"  as  an  enthusiastic 
writer  has  called  Mr.  Foss.  With  meek  thankfulness 
we  took  our  seats  on  the  middle  seat,  the  posts  of 
greatest  honor  and  danger,  on  the  front  seat,  having 
been  secured  many  days  in  advance,  by  telegraph,  from 
a  distant  part  of  California.  Such  is  the  notoriety  of 
Mr.  Foss's  driving,  and  so  inexphcable  are  the  desires 
of  the  human  heart.  But  we  soon  forgot  our  disappoint- 
ment as  we  drove  out  into  the  fresh  morning  beauty  of 


THE    GEYSERS.  45 

the  valley,  —  the  same  park-like  fields  of  grain  and  grass 
and  oak  trees  on  each  hand,  and  the  beautiful  mountain, 
St.  Helen's,  just  rising  above  the  gray  mists.  Soon  the 
valley  narrowed ;  the  hills  were  covered  with  lower 
growths  :  no  more  oaks  ;  farm-houses  were  wider  apart. 
A.11  things  showed  that  we  were  drawing  near  the  wilds. 
In  solitary  spots  we  came  upon  high  posts  with  one  cross 
arm,  on  which  swung  a  mail-bag.  With  one  dexterous 
stroke,  and  without  reining  up  his  horses,  Mr.  Foss 
would  seize  it,  and  send  the  exchange-bag  whirling 
through  the  air.  Then  we  would  wheel  suddenly  into 
some  "farmyard  ;  the  six  horses  would  gallop  at  full 
speed  round  a  track  in  shape  of  a  figure  eight,  and  come 
to  a  sudden  halt,  like  circus  horses  ;  then,  while  the 
horses  were  drinking  water,  all  the  men  in  the  two 
wagons  would  disappear  in  the  farm-house,  at  a  myste- 
rious signal  from  Foss.  We  knew  what  it  meant  only 
too  well.  This  perpetual  wayside  tippling  is  one  of  the 
worst  of  California's  bad  habits.  The  extent  of  it  would 
be  simply  incredible,  except  on  actual  observation. 

Soon  we  begin  to  climb.  The  valley  has  disappeared. 
We  are  shut  in  by  hills.  We  are  toihng  up  hills. 
From  each  ascent  we  gain  we  can  see  only  hills.  All 
the  fertile  beauty  has  gone.  Only  low  pines,  manzanita, 
and  greasewood  bushes  are  to  be  seen.  But  the  grease- 
wood  is  in  full  white  flower,  and  looks  like  a  heath  ;  and 
the  ground  is  gay  with  low  flowers — the  Columbine, 
Pink  Clarkia,  by  the  rod;  a  Claytonia,  with  a  tiny  white 
star-shaped  blossom,  growing  in  great  mats  :  a  low 
Iris,  yellow  and  white  ;  Snap  Dragons,  yellow  and  blue, 
—  all  these,  and  many  others  which  we  do  not  know, 
make  the  stony  and  dusty  ground  bright.  It  is  a  marvel 
on  what  they  are  living  ;  but  they  look  content.  Great 
thickets  of  the  "  California  Lilac."  purple  and  white, 
wave  along  the  sides  of  the  road,  and  as  far  up  as  we 
can  see  on  the  hillsides.  It  is  pathetic  to  find  it  called 
"  Lilac."  I  wonder  if  homesick  miners  did  not  name 
it  so  because  the  odor  has  a  slight  resemblance  to  that 
of  the  New  England  lilac.     But  its  fine,  feathery  flower 


46  BITS  OF  TEA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

looks  more  like  a  clethra  than  like  a  lilac  ;  and  it  has  a 
long  botanical  name,  which  I  forget.  Ten  miles  of  this 
long,  winding  climb,  and  we  are  at  the  summit  of  the 
mountain  ridge,  which  we  must  cross  to  reach  the  Geyser 
Canyon. 

From  this  summit  is  to  be  had  what  the  guide-books 
call  "one  of  the  grandest  views  which  the  globe  affords." 
I  confess  to  an  unconquerable  indifference  to  this  type 
of  view.  They  seem  to  me  singularly  alike  in  all  coun- 
tiies  ;  just  about  so  much  sharp  mountain-top  that  you 
can  see,  and  just  about  so  much  more  that  you  can't 
see,  on  account  of  mist ;  just  about  so  much  shining  line 
of  river  or  sea,  and  just  about  so  much  of  pale  blue  at 
the  horizon,  which  might  be  river,  or  sea,  or  mountain, 
or  Chinese  wall,  or  any  thing  else  in  or  out  of  the  uni- 
verse, for  all  you  can  discover. 

There  is,  of  course,  the  one  great  suggestion  and 
stimulus  of  unmeasured,  almost  immeasurable  distance. 
This  is  good  for  conceit.  Estimates  are  apt  to  adjust 
themselves  in  an  hour  of  solitude  on  a  mountain  peak. 
But  I  think  that  true  delight,  true  realization  of  the  gra- 
cious, tender,  unutterable  beauty  of  earth  and  all  created 
things  are  to  be  found  in  outlooks  from  lower  points  — 
vistas  which  shut  more  than  they  show,  sweet  and  un- 
expected reveahngs  in  level  places  and  valleys,  secrets 
of  near  woods,  and  glories  of  every-day  paths. 

All  this  I  said  to  myself  as  we  whizzed  down  the 
other  side  of  the  mountain.  I  use  the  word  "  whizzed  " 
without  any  forgetfulness  of  the  fact  that  it  is  usually 
applied  only  to  bullets  and  arrows.  I  have  never 
journeyed  on  either  of  those  vehicles,  but  I  would 
unhesitatingly  recommend  one  or  other  of  them  for 
the  descent  of  this  Pluton  Canyon.  The  road  is  simply 
a  succession  of  oxbows  or  letter  S's  in  shape  laid  along 
the  precipitous  wall  of  the  canyon.  The  turns  are  so 
sharp  that  you  often  lose  sight  of  the  leaders  and  of  the 
heads  of  the  chain-horses.  The  road  is  so  narrow  that 
in  many  places  the  outer  wheels  seem  to  be  absolutely 
in  line  with  the  sheer  wall  below,  and  in  no  place  does 


THE    GEYSERS.  47 

there  seem  to  be  more  than  six  inches  margin.  Instead 
of  a  firm  outer  edge  of  stone,  such  as  ought  to  support 
a  road  hke  this,  there  are  many  places  where  the  road 
seems  to  be  only  a  bank  of  gravel,  which  at  every  rev- 
olution of  wheels  on  it  shakes  and  sends  down  crumbling 
particles  into  the  abyss  below.  Down  this  road,  round 
these  corners,  on  these  rattling  rims  of  gravel-banks  we 
dashed  at  a  run  —  two  wagons  full  of  mortal  souls. 

One  thousand,  two  thousand  feet  below  us,  on  our 
right  hand,  ran  the  Pluton  River,  over  a  rocky  bed. 
Tall  pines  and  firs  and  enormous"  boulders  filled  up  the 
abyss,  so  that  it  looked  black  and  terrible.  If  a  bolt,  a 
strap,  a  spoke  had  given  way,  as  we  turned  one  of  those 
corners,  wagons,  people,  all  would  have  spun  out  into 
the  air,  as  a  child's  top  spins  off  when  it  first  leaves  the 
string.  It  was  perilous  ;  it  was  reckless.  But  no  sober 
sense  can  keep  sober  in  such  a  descent  ;  it  is  only  the 
afterthought  which  takes  note  of  thefoolhardiness.  At 
the  time  we  held  our  breaths,  with  quite  as  much  de- 
Hght  as  terror.  Tops  of  trees  were  below  our  feet  one 
minute,  above  our  heads  the  next,  and  the  next  gone,  left 
behind,  and  more  trees  dancing  up  in  their  places. 
Gigantic  rocks,  and  gnarled  roots,  and  fallen  trees 
covered  with  moss,  and  trickling  streams,  and  foaming 
cascades,  and  waving  bushes  of  white  blossoms,  and 
great  spaces  of  pink  and  scarlet  and  yellow  flowers  be- 
neath, all  seemed  to  be  flying  up  the  hill  as  fast  as 
we  were  flying  down.  High  on  our  left  rose  a  wall, 
whose  top  we  often  could  not  see — sometimes  solid 
rock,  with  tiny  ferns  and  flowers  clinging  in  crevices ; 
sometimes  a  heavily- wooded  bank,  with  the  roots  of  its 
great  trees  projecting,  bare,  and  threatening  to  fall.  I 
have  forgotten  how  few  minutes  we  were  in  reaching  the 
bottom  of  the  canyon.  I  only  remember  that  it  was  a 
matter  of  boast  that  the  descent  had  been  made  in  so 
short  a  time ;  and  the  fact  that  this  can  be  a  point  of 
pride  with  drivers,  that  this  kind  of  road  can  be  looked 
on  as  a  race-course,  is  more  significant  than  any  comment 
or  any  statistics  of  speed.     Is  there  any  other  country 


f8  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

dxcept  America  where  such  a  road  and  snch  driving 
A^ould  be  permitted  ?  In  the  famous  Ampezzo  Pass,  in 
Italy,  the  road  has  to  wind  around  a  dolomite  mountain 
fline  thousand  feet  high,  the  Antelao.  Three  times  the 
road  crosses  the  walled  front  of  that  mountain.  From 
ihe  lowest  road  you  can  look  up  to  the  two  above,  and 
they  look  like  mere  lines  on  the  rocky  surface.  From 
the.  uppermost  road  you  look  down  straight  into  the 
valley  below,  and  see  no  sign  of  the  roads  by  which  you 
have  climbed,  so  sheer  is  the  wall.  But  this  road  is  at 
all  points  wide  enough  for  two  carriages  to  pass  at  full 
speed  ;  and  its  outer  edge  is  a  thick  wall  of  masonry  and 
stone,  at  least  a  foot  wide. 

There  is  a  little  meadow  in  the  bottom  of  the  Pluton 
Canyon.  It  is  just  big  enough  to  hold  a  small  hotel 
and  half  a  vegetable  garden  ;  the  other  half  of  the 
vegetable  garden  runs  up  hill  in  terraces.  There  is  a 
little  stable  too.  and  a  bit  of  white  paling  and  one  arched 
gateway,  with  the  sign  ''  To  Geysers,"  and  another  with, 
"  To  Steam  Bath  ;  "  and  the  whole  thing  looks  so  much 
as  if  it  had  set  itself  dov/n  there  in  spite  of  the  canyon 
that  it  is  as  droll  as  it  is  picturesque.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  canyon  is  a  great  bare  rift,  —  another  small 
canyon  splitting  the  side  of  the  great  one.  It  is  bare 
and  rocky  and  burnt  looking ;  and  steam  curls  up  and 
down  and  out  of  it,  and  floats  off  in  thin,  weird  shapes 
over  the  tall  pine  forests  beyond. 

It  was  just  noon  when  we  tumbled  into  the  Pluton 
Canyon  and  landed  at  the  Geysers'  Hotel.  There  were 
a  great  many  too  many  people,  and  nobody  could  be 
comfortable  ;  by  way  of  making  things  more  uncomforta- 
ble still,  the  Dutch  landlord  ordered  everybody  to  walk 
up  the  Gevser  Canyon  immediately  after  lunch. 

One  o'clock,  a  blazing  sun  overhead,  bare,  blistering 
rocks  everywhere,  and  a  boiling  tea-kettle  under  foot  at 
every  step  !  We,  having  been  forewarned  that  the  time 
to  see  the  Geysers  in  perfection  is  early  in  the  morning, 
utterly  refused  to  go.     Dutch  landlord  was  indignant. 

"  But  the  guide  is  going  now.  It  is  the  time  I  send 
him  up.' 


THE    GEYSERS.  49 

*'  But  it  is  too  hot,  and  we  are  tired  ;  and  there  is 
much  more  steam  when  it  is  cooler.  We  will  go  this 
afternoon,  or  early  in  the  morning." 

"  But  I  have  not  twenty-five  servants  to  send  when 
each  one  Hkes.  I  do  not  know  you  can  have  guide  this 
evening,  and  there  is  not  time  to  go  after  five  o'clock." 

"  Very  well.  We  simply  shall  not  go  now.  We  can 
return  without  seeing  the  Geysers  at  all,  if  you  refuse  us 
a  guide." 

Meekly  the  poor,  tired  throng  filed  out  through  the 
gateway,  under  the  scorching  sun.  Only  we  two  re- 
mained. How  we  laughed  at  the  Dutchman's  cross 
face,  as  he  struck  off  into  his  vegatable  garden  !  Climb- 
ing up  terrace  after  terrace,  and  then  one  fence,  we 
found  a  grassy  bank,  where  we  lay  the  whole  afternoon, 
under  shade  of  an  oak,  and  watched  the  shapes  of  the 
hot  steam  curling  and  writhing  up  from  the  opposite 
canyon.  A  superb  crested  pheasant  came  and  sat  on  a 
low  bough,  in  full  sight  of  us,  and  dressed  his  neck 
feathers,  and  called  to  somebody  he  knew.  We  picked 
twelve  different  kinds  of  wild  flowers  within  a  rod  or 
two  of  our  oak,  and  then  we  went  down  in  the  cool  of 
the  early  twilight. 

"  We  would  hke  to  go  up  to  the  Geysers  in  the  morn- 
ing. Will  you  send  a  guide  up  with  us  at  half-past 
five  ?  "  said  we. 

"  Yes,"  growled  the  Dutchman. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  have  us  called  at  quarter  before 
five." 

"  Ugh  !  "   replied  the  Dutchman. 

At  five  we  luckily  waked  up  ourselves.  At  quarter- 
past  five  came  a  surly  knock  at  the  door. 

"  We  are  up,"  called  we. 

"  Ugh  !  "  said  the  Dutchman. 

^  At  half-past  five  we  had  just  seated  ourselves  in  the 
dining-room,  when  the  Dutchman  appeared. 

"  Time  to  start.     Guide  is  waiting. 

"  But  we  must  have  something  to  eat.     You  did  not 
call  us  at  quarter  to  five,  as  you  promised  " 
4 


50  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

"  Nobody  is  called  at  the  Geysers  before  quarter- 
past  five.  One  quarter-hour  is  enough  for  anybody  to 
dress." 

"  It  is  impossible  to  dress  in  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Then  you  should  not  haf  come  to  the  Geysers.  It  is 
military  rule  at  Geysers." 

Somebody  speaks  somewhere  of  before-breakfast  cour- 
age. There  is  a  before-breakfast  temper  too,  I  suppose, 
which  is  a  good  deal  harder  to  keep  than  any  other  sort. 
What  we  said  at  this  crisis  in  the  conversation  I  would 
rather  not  tell ;  but  the  Dutchman  said  only  "  Ugh  !  " 
and,  of  course,  a  person  who  confines  himself  to  that 
ejaculation  can  easily  have  the  last  word  in  any  quarrel : 
there  soon  seems  to  remain  so  little  to  be  said  in  reply 
to  it.  Even  at  this  distance,  however,  there  is  satisfac- 
tion in  saying  of  that  Dutchman  that  he  was  the  only 
ill-tempered,  uncivil  landlord  we  found  in  California, 
and  that  he  keeps  as  bad  a  house  as  I  ever  found  any- 
where. But  our  little  guide  had  a  sunny  face,  the  dew 
sparkled  on  every  leaf  as  we  set  out,  and  in  five  minutes 
we  were  ashamed  of  ourselves  for  having  had  any  feel- 
ing except  pity  for  the  poor  cross  man.  The  path  led 
at  once  down  into  shady  hollows,  and  across  a  stream 
at  bottom  of  the  Pluton  Canyon  ;  then  out  and  up  the 
other  side,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  at  the  entrance 
of  the  Geyser  Canyon.  What  had  looked  to  us  the  day 
before,  from  our  hillside,  like  little  more  than  a  narrow 
rift  in  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley  proved  to  be  a 
canyon  of  considerable  width,  with  sharp  sides  twelve  or 
fourteen  hundred  feet  high. 

It  looked  as  if  it  had  been  built  up  of  old  refuse  mat- 
ter from  foundries  ;  as  if  for  centuries  men  had  sifted 
ashes  and  thrown  out  clinkers  and  bad  coal  and  waste 
stones  and  junk  and  every  conceivable  sort  of  scorched 
metallic  thing  into  this  chasm  ;  and  as  if  several  apothe- 
caries' shops  had  burnt  down  there  too,  for  there  was  a 
new  color  and  worse  odor  at  every  other  step.  And  the 
little  guide,  striking  his  cane  or  fingers  into  bank  after 
bank,    kept  bringing   forth  crumbs  and   powders,   and 


THE   GEYSERS.  51 

offerino;  them  to  us  to  taste  or  smell,  with  "Here  is 
pure  alum  ;  "  "  Here  is  epsom  salts  ;  "  *'  Here  is  sul- 
phur ;  "  "  Here  is  cinnabar  ;  "  "  Here  is  soda  ;  "  till  we 
felt  as  if  we  were  in  the  wholesale  drug-shop  of  the 
universe.  Meantime,  he  skipped  along  from  rock  to 
rock  like  a  chamois  ;  and  we  followed  on  as  best  we 
might,  through  the  hot  steam,  which  came  up  hissing 
and  fizzing  out  of  every  hole  and  from  beneath  every 
stone.  A  brook  of  hot  water  running  swiftly  over  and 
among  rocks  ;  pools  and  cauldrons  of  hot  water  boiling 
and  bubbling  by  dozens  all  around;  black  openings, 
most  fearful  of  all,  where  no  water  can  be  seen,  but 
from  which  roaring  jets  of  steam  come  out,  —  this 
is  the  bottom  of  the  Geyser  Canyon.  It  is  half  a  mile 
long,  and  up  it,  in  it,  back  and  forth  across  it,  you 
go.  You  think  you  will  plant  your  stick  on  the 
ground  to  steady  yourself  for  a  spring  from  one  hot 
stone  to  another,  and  down  goes  your  stick,  —  down, 
down  into  soft,  smoking,  sulphurous,  gravelly  sand,  so 
far  and  so  suddenly  that  you  almost  fall  on  your  face. 
You  draw  the  stick  up  and  out,  and  a  small  column  of  hot 
steam  follows  it.  Next  you  make  a  misstep,  and  invol- 
untarily catch  hold  of  a  projecting  point  of  rock  with 
one  hand.  You  let  go  as  if  it  were  fire  itself.  It  does 
not  absolutely  blister  you  ;  but  it  is  too  hot  to  hold. 
Your  foot  slips  an  eighth  of  an  inch  out  of  the  guide's 
footsteps,  which  you  are  following  as  carefully  as  if 
life  and  death  depended  on  it,  and  you  go  in  over  shoes 
in  water  so  hot  that  you  scream  and  think  you  are 
scalded.  You  are  not  ;  but,  if  you  had  slipped  a  few 
inches  further  to  right  or  to  left,  you  would  have  been, 
for  on  each  side  inky-black  water  is  boiling  so  that  it 
bubbles  aloud.  All  this  while,  besides  the  hissing  and 
fizzing  of  the  steam  and  boiling  and  bubbling  of  the 
water  which  you  see,  there  is  a  deep  violoncello  under- 
tone of  boiling  and  bubbhng  and  hissing  and  fizzing  of 
water  and  steam  which  you  do  not  see,  which  are  deep 
down  under  your  feet,  —  deep  down  to  right  of  you, 
deep  down  to  left  of  you,  —  making  the  very  canyon 


52  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

itself  throb  and  quiver.  How  thick  the  crust  may  be 
nobody  knows.  That  it  can  be  thick  at  all  seems  im- 
probable when,  prick  it  where  you  may,  with  ever  so 
slender  a  stick,  the  hot  steam  rushes  out. 

"  Why  did  it  not  all  cave  in  yesterday  ?  "  and  "  Why 
does  it  not  cave  in  this  minute  .?  "  and  "  Oh  !  it  will 
surely  cave  in  to-morrow  !  "  you  exclaim,  as  you  take 
your  last  leap  out  of  it,  and  look  back  from  a  firm  green 
bank  above.  There  can  be  no  uncannier  place  in  this 
world,  unless  it  be  a  volcano  crater  ;  and  one  does  not  in 
the  least  resent  finding  it  sealed,  signed,  and  stamped 
with  the  name  of  Satan.  "  Devil's  Gristmill,"  "  Devil's 
Inkstand,"  "  Devil's  Pulpit,"  "  Devil's  Apothecary 
Shop,"  "  Devil's  Tea-kettle  "  were  among  the  names 
which  the  guide  shouted  back  to  us  as  he  perched  on 
some  especially  high  rock  or  squatted  over  some  par- 
ticularly horrible  hole. 

It  was  bewildering  to  pass,  by  almost  a  single  step, 
from  scorching  ashes,  nauseous  stenches,  and  blinding 
steam,  into  tangled  and  shady  woods,  fragrant  with 
spice  wood  and  bright  with  flowers,  and  to  hear  the 
guide  caUing  out,  in  advance:  "This  is  the  Lover's 
Seat,"  the  "  Lover's  Retreat."  But  so  we  returned  to 
the  hotel  by  a  winding  path  over  the  upper  slopes  of  the 
Pluton  Canyon.  As  we  struck  down  to  its  lower  level, 
we  came  upon  a  few  trickling  streams  of  the  same  hot, 
sulphurous  water.  Yellow  Gherardias  were  growing 
close  on  their  edge,  and  the  flowers  were  far  larger  and  of 
a  deeper  tint  than  those  which  grew  away  from  the 
water, 

"  We  have  enjoyed  our  visit  to  the  Geysers  very 
much.  It  is  a  most  wonderful  sight !  "  said  we  to  the 
landlord.  We  were  sorry  for  having  quarrelled  with 
him.     "  Ugh  !  "  said  the  Dutchman. 


HOLY  CROSS   VILLAGE,   ETC.  53 


HOLY   CROSS   VILLAGE    AND    MRS. 
POPE'S. 

IT  is  put  down  on  the  maps  as  Santa  Cruz  ;  but  wny 
should  I  not  speak  my  own  language  ?     No  one  of 
the  old  Padres  who  named  the  meadows  and  hills  of 
this  sweetest  of  seaside  places  could  have  lingered  more 
tenderly  on  the  sound  of  the  soft  "  Santa  "  than  I  over 
the  good  and  stronger  word  "  Holy."     And  to  none  of 
them  did  it  seem  a  fitter  spot  for  a  mission  than  it  does 
to  me.     The  old  adobe  buildings  which  the  Padres  built 
are  crumbled  and  gone,  and  no  man  knows  where  the 
Padres  sleep  ;  but  the  communion  of  saints  is  never 
banished  from  an  air  it  has  once  filled.     Sacred  for  ever 
and  everywhere  on  earth   are   the   places  whose  first 
founders  and  builders  were  men  who  went  simply  to 
carry  the  news  of  their  Christ  and  who  sought  no  per- 
sonal gain.     Holy  Cross  Village  is  by  the  Pacific  Sea, 
—  close  by  the  sea,  a  hundred  miles  or  so  to  the  south 
'f  you  go  from  San  Francisco.     You  can  get  there  in  a 
day.     But  it  is  better  to  take  longer.     It  always  is  bet- 
ter to  take  longer  going  anywhere,  —  ways  are  so  sure 
to  be  nicer  than  any  places  you  set  out  to  reach.     The 
way  to   Holy  Cross  Village  is  delightful,  if  you  go  by 
San  Jose  and  Santa  Clara.     First,  an  hour  in  the  cars, 
running  southward  through  the  Santa  Clara  Valley,  — 
parks  and  rich  men's  houses,  wheat  and  oats,  and  wind- 
mills by  dozens  ;  then,  just  at  sunset,  San  Jose,  another 
of  the  sacred  old  mission  towns.    It  hes  low,  between  two 
mountain  ranges.     It  is  shady  and  straight  and  full  of 
flowers.     There  are  pubhc  gardens,  with  round  tables 
under  the  trees,  with  little  ponds,  and  boats,  and  targets, 
and  ;Umping-boards,  where  it  is  evident  that  men  and 


54  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME, 

women  frolic  daily,  after  un-American  fashion.  There 
is  a  Chinese  quarter  ;  which  is,  in  fact,  only  five  steps 
from  the  main  street,  but  is  in  atmosphere  five  thousand 
miles  away.  At  the  end  of  its  one  narrow  lane  stands  a 
Joss  House,  —  small,  white,  high,  double-gabled  in  roof  ; 
a  dolphin,  tail  up,  for  a  steeple  ;  a  gigantic  lady-bug  and 
a  lobster  on  the  ridge-pole  ;  square  patches  of  bright 
colors,  interspersed  with  cabalistic  inscriptions,  like  an 
album  missionary  bedquilt,  on  the  wall  ;  steep  stairs, 
climbing  up  outside  the  house  ;  and  a  door  opening 
into  an  airless  little  chapel,  where  a  huge  tureen  full  of 
the  ashes  of  burnt  prayers  stands  on  a  low  altar.  The 
prayers,  rolled  up  in  the  shape  of  slender  cigarettes,  are 
stuck  like  lamp-lighters  in  a  vase  close  by.  In  a  small, 
windowless  alcove  at  the  end  of  the  chapel  we  found  the 
priest,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  scraping  opium. 
The  furniture  of  his  bedroom  consisted  —  besides  the 
wickerwork  bedstead,  which  had  a  thin  roll  of  bedding 
at  its  head  —  of  a  teapot,  two  teacups,  and  a  pipe.  This 
was  all.  He  looked  happy.  There  are  three  fine  pub- 
lic schoolhouses  in  San  Jose,  a  handsome  building  for 
a  normal  school,  and  the  most  wonderful  weeping- 
willows  in  the  world.  These  are  on  General  Negley's 
-ground.  Four  of  them  make  together  a  great  dome 
of  green,  through  which  little  light  penetrates,  into 
which  you  drive,  and  find  yourself  walled  in  on  all 
sides  by  quivering,  drooping  willow  wreaths,  which, 
although  they  bend  from  a  point  some  sixty  or  seventy 
feet  up  in  the  air,  still  trail  on  the  ground.  All  this 
and  more  you  will  find  out  about  San  Jose  before 
the  sun  sets,  and  then  you  will  sleep  at  the  Auzerais 
House,  which  is  so  good  that  one  must  be  forgiven  for 
calling  it  by  name. 

Early  the  next  morning,  a  top  seat  on  the  stage  for 
Santa  Cruz;  three  miles  to  Santa  Clara, — three  miles 
on  an  absolutely  straight,  absolutely  level  road,  walled 
with  willows  and  poplars  on  each  side.  The  old  Padres 
set  these  out ;  most  enduring  of  all  memorials,  most 
indisputable  title-deed  to  the  right  of  gratitude  from 
generations. 


HOLY  CROSS    VILLAGE,  ETC.  55 

From  Santa  Clara,  twelve  miles  out  to  the  Coast 
Range  of  mountains  ;  twelve  miles  across  the  Santa 
Clara  Valley.  This  road  is  also  perfectly  level ;  in  the 
dust  and  heat  of  summer,  intolerable  ;  on  the  day  we 
crossed  it,  clear  and  pleasant,  and  golden,  too,  as  the 
wake  of  a  cloud  in  a  smooth  yellow  sky,  for  the  whole 
valley  was  waving  with  yellow  mustard.  What  the  ox-eye 
daisy  is  to  New  England,  the  wild  mustard  is  to  these 
saints'  valleys  in  CaHfornia.  But  the  mustard  has  and 
keeps  right  of  way,  as  no  plant  could  on  the  sparser 
New  England  soil.  Literally  acre  after  acre  it  covers, 
so  that  no  spike  nor  spire  of  any  other  thing  can  lift  its 
head.  In  full  flower,  it  is  gorgeous  beyond  words  to 
describe  or  beyond  color  to  paint.  The  petals  are  so 
small,  and  the  flower  swings  on  so  fine  and  thread-like 
a  stem,  and  the  plant  grows  so  rank  and  high,  that  the 
effect  is  of  floating  masses  of  golden  globules  in  the 
air,  as  you  look  off  through  it,  bringing  the  eye  near  and 
to  its  level  ;  or,  as  you  look  down  on  it  from  a  distance, 
it  is  a  yellow  surface,  too  undulating  for  gold,  too  solid 
for  sea.  There  are  wheat  fields  in  the  Santa  Clara  Val- 
ley, and  farms  with  fruit-trees  ;  but  I  recall  the  valley 
only  as  one  long  level  of  blazing,  floating,  yellow  bloom. 

The  Coast  Range  Mountains  rise  gently  from  the  val- 
ley ;  but  the  road  enters  abruptly  upon  them,  and  the 
change  from  the  open  sun  and  the  vivid  yellow  of  the 
valley  to  tlie  shifting  shadows  of  hills  and  the  glistening 
darkness  of  redwood  and  madrone  trees  is  very  sharp. 
The  road  is  like  all  tne  mountain  roads  in  California,  — 
dizzy,  dangerous,  dehcious  ;  flowers  and  ferns  and  vines 
and  shrubs  tangled  to  the  very  edges  ;  towering  trees 
above  and  towering  trees  below  ;  a  rocky  wall  close  on 
one  hand  and  a  wooded  abyss  close  on  the  other,  and 
racing  horses  pulling  you  through  between.  "  It  is 
magnificent,  but  it  is  not  driving."  We  stop  for  a  bad 
dinner  at  a  shanty  house,  which  is  walled  and  thatched 
with  roses  ;  and  we  make  occasional  stops  to  water  at 
lonely  Uttle  settlements,  where  the  hills  have  broken 
apart  and  away  from  each  other  just  enough  to  let  a 


■56  BITS  OF   TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME 

field  or  two  lie  and  tempt  a  few  souls  up  into  their  liv- 
ing grave.  At  all  such  spots  the  wistful,  eager,  home- 
sick look  on  some  of  the  faces  wrung  my  heart.  "  Be 
you  from  the  east  ?  "  said  one  man,  as  he  brought  out 
the  water  for  the  horses.  He  had  a  weak,  tremulous, 
disappointed  face.  The  pale  blue  eyes  had  lost  all 
purpose,  if  they  ever  had  it.  "  Oh,  yes  !  "  said  we  gayly. 
"  From  the  other  edge  of  the  continent."  And  then  we 
waited  for  the  usual  reply.     "  Well    I    wonder   if  you 

know  my  uncle,  Mr. .    He  lives  in    New  York." 

But  no.  "  I  thought  so,"  was  all  the  man  said  ;  but 
there  was  something  indescribably  pathetic  in  the 
emphasis  and  the  falling  inflection.  Early  in  the  after- 
noon we  came  out  on  a  divide,  a  narrow  ridge,  wooded 
less  thickly,  and  giving  us  glimpses  of  the  ocean  in  the 
distance.  When  we  reach  the  end  of  the  seaward  slope 
of  this,  we  shall  have  crossed  the  Coast  Range,  and  shall 
find  our  Holy  Cross  Village.  A  few  miles  this  side  of 
it,  the  driver  says  :  — 

"  Now  we're  coming  to  the  Hotel  de  Redwood.  There 
it  is." 

And  he  points  with  his  whip.  All  that  can  be  seen  on 
either  hand  is  the  same  unbroken  forest  of  majestic 
redwoods  and  pines  and  madrones  through  which  we 
have  been  driving  for  miles. 

"  Get  out,  gentlemen,  and  take  a  drink,"  calls  a  feeble 
voice  from  a  ragged  man,  taking  the  near  leader  by  the 
head.  "  I  am  the  proprietor  of  the  Hotel  de  Red- 
wood." 

Then  we  see  a  small  white  sign  nailed  to  the  bark  of 
one  of  the  biggest  trees  :  "  Hotel  de  Redwood."  Thol 
door  is  in  the  other  side  of  the  tree,  furthest  from  the 
road.  That  is  the  reason  we  didn't  see  it  ;  this  is  the 
kind  of  thing  a  moderate  tree  can  be  used  for  in  this 
country  of  sizes  too  big  to  sort.  It  is  not  a  hotel  in 
which  one  would  sleep,  to  be  sure  ;  but  it  is  a  hotel  big 
enough  for  eight  or  ten  people  to  stand  at  once  in  f*-^nt 
of  its  little  counter,  where  are  for  sale  the  ever-pre^ei^t 
and  innumerable  drinks  of  the  country.     One  hoUov 


HOLY  CROSS    VILLAGE,  ETC.  $7 

tree  for  bar-room,  one  for  shop,  one  for  library,  one  for 
museum,  one  for  bedroom  of  the  proprietor  —  five  hol- 
low trees  make  the  Hotel  de  Redwood.  The  Hbrary 
consists  of  six  volumes  ;  the  museum  of  a  live  hairless 
South  American  dog,  a  dead  California  lion,  and  the 
head  of  a  bear.  The  bedroom  —  I  would  rather  not 
speak  of  the  bedroom.  I  think  the  lion  used  to  sleep  in 
it,  and  the  proprietor  killed  him  for  his  bed. 

"  Can't  you  take  me  into  town  ? "  said  the  proprietor, 
looking  wistfully  at  the  driver. 

''Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Baker.  Jump  up.  It's  a  light  load 
to-day  ;  but  you  must  bring  your  violin,  and  play  for 
us." 

So  the  poor  vagabond  fellow  sprang  merrily  up  on  the 
top  of  the  stage  ;  and  we  drove  into  the  village  to  the 
tune  of  "The  Traveller  from  Arkansas." 

The  village  lies  close  to  the  sea.  There  are  houses 
from  which  you  can  throw  a  stone  to  the  beach.  Then, 
a  little  higher  up,  is  the  business  street,  where  shops 
and  offices  and  one  or  two  quaint,  small  inns,  with  pots 
of  flowers  all  along  their  balconies,  are  set  thick  to- 
gether, and  contrive  to  look  much  wider  awake  than 
they  are  ;  then  rise  sudden,  sharp  terraces,  —  marking 
old  water-levels,  no  doubt,  —  up  which  one  ought  to  go 
by  staircases,  but  up  which  one  does  chmb  wearily  by 
winding  roads  and  paths.  On  these  terraces  are  the 
homes  of  Santa  Cruz.  Not  a  fine  house,  not  a  large 
house  among  them  ;  but  not  a  house  without  a  garden, 
and  hardly  a  house  without  such  fuchsias,  geraniums, 
and  roses  as  would  make  a  show  to  be  sought  after  in 
any  other  country  than  this.  Is  it  worth  while,  I  won- 
der, to  say  to  people  who  keep  a  couple  of  scarlet 
geraniums  carefully  in  pots  in  their  window,  that  in  this 
village  scarlet  geraniums  live  out  of  doors  all  the  year 
round,  grow  by  dozens  along  fences,  like  currant-bushes, 
and  stick  out  between  the  slats,  great  bits,  and  branches, 
that  anybody  may  pick  ;  that  they  stand  plentifully  at 
corners  of  houses,  running  up,  hke  old  lilac-trees,  to  the 
Becond-story  windows  ;  that  a  fuchsia  will  grow  all  ovei 


5 8  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME 

a  piazza,  and  a  white  rosebush  cover  a  small  cottage,  — 
walls,  eaves,  roof,  —  till  nothing  but  the  chimney  is 
left  in  sight,  coming  out  of  a  round  bank  of  white  and 
green  ? 

Believe  it  who  can,  that  has  not  seen  it !  In  Holy 
Cross  \^illage,  to-day,  are  many  scarlet  geraniums  and 
fuchsias  and  rose-bushes,  of  all  colors,  that  can  '*  wit- 
ness if  I  He." 

Walking  half  a  mile  back — no,  quarter  of  a  mile 
back  —  from  these  terraces,  you  come  to  soft,  round 
hills,  with  openings  of  meadow-stretches,  fertile  and 
rich  as  the  prairie.  Many  of  these  are  wooded  heavily 
with  redwoods  and  pines,  madrones  and  buckeye. 
Through  these  woods  wind  delicious  roads,  rising  out 
of  damp,  shadowy  fern-and-flower-filled  hollows,  to 
broad,  breezy  openings,  from  which  the  sea  is  in  full 
sight,  and  across  which  the  delicious  wind  sweeps 
straight  up  from  Monterey,  or  over  from  the  mountains 
the  other  side  of  the  bay. 

Walking  down  from  the  terraces  seaward,  and  then 
southward,  you  find  marshy  meadows,  green  and  brown, 
through  which  the  road-track  is  hardly  defined.  Flow- 
ers grow  on  each  side,  as  bright  and  many  as  on  the 
prairie.  Presently,  the  road  comes  to  an  abrupt  end, 
in  a  little  grassy  spot,  divided  only  by  a  low,  brushwood 
fence  from  a  half-moon-shaped  beach  of  white  sand, 
between  two  high  cHffs.  The  furthest  cliflf  has  a  natu- 
ral arch  in  it,  many  feet  high,  through  which  the  sea 
beyond  shows  a  half-circle  of  blue,  set  in  yellowish 
white,  looking  like  a  great  gate  of  sapphire,  swinging 
slowly  to  and  fro  in  an  arched  gateway  of  ivory.  The 
nearer  cliff  is  covered  with  curious  plants  of  the  cactus 
species,  with  yellow  blossoms  and  red  ;  and  the  rocks 
seem  to  be  of  a  chalky  nature,  brilliantly  veined  with 
black  and  yellow  and  pale  pink.  At  the  base  of  the 
cliff,  the  same  bright-veined  rocks  stretch  out,  in  ir- 
regular and  broken  floors.  As  the  high  tide  comes  ud 
over  these,  all  the  depressions  are  kept  filled  with 
water,  and  make  beautiful  aquaria,  in  which  live  limpets 


HOLY  CROSS   VILLAGE,  ETC.  59 

and  muscles  and  anemones.  Fine  and  rare  seaweeds 
are  strewn  around  their  rims,  and  wave  from  their 
sides  deep  down  in  the  water.  The  hne  of  white  surf 
breaks  perpetually  beyond,  coming  or  going,  —  always 
a  surf ;  retreating  always  with  a  kneeling  face,  turned 
to  the  cliff,  as  is  the  law  of  stately  surfs  on  all  seas,  leav- 
ing the  king's  presence  of  their  shores. 

To  go  back  to  the  village  by  another  way,  you  strike 
across  the  marshy  meadows,  following  for  two  miles  or 
more  a  soft,  grassy  road,  through  flowers  ;  then  as- 
cending a  high  plateau,  on  which  are  farms  and  here  and 
there  lime-kilns,  with  blazing  fires,  and  glistening,  white 
rock  piled  up  by  their  sides.  You  are  high  up  above  the 
village,  now  ;  but  woods  shut  it  out  of  sight.  You  pass 
it,  —  go  two  miles  beyond  it ;  then  turn,  and  come  down 
to  it  by  a  wooded  road  on  the  steep  side  of  a  little 
canyon,  through  which  a  small  river  makes  to  the  sea. 
A  wild  azalea  grows  in  masses  on  this  road,  —  azalea, 
whose  flowers  are  white  and  pink  and  yellow  all  together. 
Down  in  the  bottom  of  the  canyon  is  a  little  green 
meadow  oasis,  where  there  are  a  few  white  houses  and 
a  powder-mill.  The  river  turns,  to  make  room  for  it,  in 
such  a  sudden  and  exquisite  curve  that  you  think  it  is 
carrying  it  on  one  arm,  as  a  woman  carries  a  baby.  At 
you  come  out  of  the  woods,  the  broad  sea  flashes  sud- 
denly into  full  sight ;  and  the  village  shows  in  shining 
bits  here  and  there,  Hke  something  the  sea  might  have 
broken  and  thrown  up.  You  see  now  that  the  terraces 
are  not  so  high  as  they  seem  ;  and  the  village  has  little 
threads  of  lanes  and  streets,  fringing  off  into  the  mead- 
ows in  all  directions.  It  is  sunset  :  all  Nature  rings 
the  Angelus  ;  and  you  say  in  your  heart,  "  God  bless  the 
village ! " 

"  Mrs.  Pope's"  is  a  Httle  house,  where  lucky  strangers 
stay.  It  consists  of  three  cottages  and  a  quarter 
In  two  of  the  cottages,  the  guests  lodge,  and  take  thei) 
meals  in  the  cottage  and  a  quarter.  The  furthest  cot 
tage  of  lodgings  is  an  old  one.  It  is,  or  ought  to  be 
called  the  "  Cottage  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold  Rose  ;  "  for. 


6o  BITS  OF   TEA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

on  one  of  its  walls,  grows  a  cloth  of  gold  rose-tree 
(not  bush),  —  a  tree  whose  trunk  lies  flat  against  the 
side  of  the  house,  and  reaches  up  to  the  eaves  before 
it  condescends  to  branch  at  all.  Then  it  sends  out 
arms  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  and  hides  the  whole 
length  of  the  eaves,  from  corner  to  corner,  with  leaves 
and  roses.  The  cottage  is  very  low.  The  boughs  and 
sprays  hang  half  way  to  the  ground.  You  can  pick  as 
many  Cloth  of  Gold  roses  every  day  as  you  like  ;  and 
nobody  will  miss  them.  The  next  cottage  is  new.  It 
has  only  four  rooms,  a  back  door,  a  front  door,  a  roof,  and 
a  little  bit  of  piazza.  From  it,  you  go  over  a  pine-plank 
path  —  a  few  seconds'  walk  —  to  the  dining-room,  in  the 
"cottage  and  a  quarter."  From  the  piazza,  you  look  into 
flower-beds,  through  which  the  path  leads  up  from  the 
gate  to  the  house.  Rose-bushes,  six  and  seven  feet 
high  ;  roses,  of  all  colors,  and  of  the  rarest  kinds  ;  helio- 
tropes, geraniums,  pinks  ;  a  huge  datura  in  the  centre, 
with  blossoms  ten  inches  long ;  an  abutilon,  high  as  the 
evergreen  trees  by  its  side,  and  so  sturdy  that  the  tame 
blackbird  who  scolds  in  the  garden,  early  and  late,  for 
somebody  to  come  and  give  him  bread,  can  sit  on  the 
topmost  boughs  of  it. 

The  ''  quarter"  is  two  rooms,  joined  to  the  cottage  by 
a  little  glass-fronted  chamber,  in  which  ferns  are  to 
grow.  The  outside  door  opens  into  the  parlor,  which  is 
a  low  room,  with  an  open  fire-place,  where,  in  spite  of 
the  Cloth  of  Gold  roses,  a  wood  fire  will  be  blazing  on 
andirons,  night  and  morning,  in  July.  There  is  a  piano, 
\  chintz-covered  lounge,  fantastic  shell-work,  and  cone- 
work  brackets  in  the  corners,  a  low  centre-lamp  swung 
by  a  chain  from  the  ceiling,  and,  on  the  round-table  under 
it,  the  last  "  Old  and  New."  Sixteen  copies  of  "  Old 
and  New  "  are  taken  in  Holy  Cross  Village.  This  is 
the  result  of  the  leaven  left  there  by  that  brave,  strong, 
but  one  ideaed  woman,  Ehza  Farnham. 

The  farm  on  which  she  and  her  beloved  friend,  Geor- 
gia Bruce,  toiled  like  men,  and  sowed  and  reaped  and 
Cs'ulded  with  their  own  hands,  lies  Uttle  more  than  a  mile 


HOLY  CROSS   VILLAGE,  ETC.  6 1 

a\vay  from  the  town.  Mrs.  Farnham's  house  was  burnt 
down,  a  short  time  ago  ;  but  another  has  been  built  on 
the  same  spot,  and  a  son  of  "Tom" — who  will  be  so 
well  remembered  by  all  who  have  read  Mrs.  Farnham's 
account  of  her  California  hfe  —  lives  in  it  now,  with  his 
mother.  The  house  stands  in  a  lovely  spot,  on  high 
ground,  from  which  meadows  slope  gently  to  the  sea- 
level,  and  then  stretch  away  miles  to  the  beach.  When 
that  adventurous  woman  broke  ground  for  her  house, 
no  other  house  was  in  sight,  except  the  Mission  Build- 
ing, and  the  little  shanty  in  which  she  lived  while  her 
own  house  was  going  up.  Now  the  Mission  is  used  for 
a  stable.  The  northern  outskirts  of  the  village  lie  in 
full  sight,  between  her  farm  and  the  sea  ;  and,  to  reach 
the  sight  of  her  house,  you  must  pass  a  thickly  wooded 
cemetery,  in  which  there  are  many  headstones.  On  the 
day  that  we  were  there,  men  were  tossing  hay  in  the  beau- 
tiful, curving  meadow  hollows  just  before  the  house,  — 
the  same  meadow  where  Mrs.  Farnham  sowed  the 
first  wheat  which  was  sowed  in  Santa  Cruz,  and  where 
Georgia  Bruce  spent  whole  days  in  planting  potatoes. 
The  air  was  almost  heavy  with  the  fragrance  from  the 
fresh  hay,  and  from  the  thickets  of  azalea  on  the  ceme- 
tery banks.  The  distant  sea  glittered  like  a  burnished 
shield,  to  which  the  mountains  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bay  were  set  like  an  opal  rim.  Hardship  and  struggle 
seem  monstrous  in  such  an  atmosphere.  There  must 
have  been  an  air  of  mockery  to  those  toiling  pioneers 
in  the  very  smile  of  this  transcendently  lovely  Nature. 
To  want  bread,  to  need  shelter  in  such  realms  of  luxu- 
riance and  warmth  ;  to  suffer,  to  die  under  such  skies,  — 
the  heart  resents  and  rejects  the  very  thought  with  pas- 
sionate disbelief.  But  such  thoughts,  such  recollec- 
tions, such  struggle,  are,  after  all,  the  needed  shadow 
to  a  too  vivid  sun.  Holy  Cross  Village  is  blessed  of 
both,  — blessed  in  its  sparkHng  sea,  its  rainless  sky,  it.«? 
limitless  blossom  ;  blessed  also  in  the  memory  of  Eliza 
Farnham,  and  the  presence  to-day  of  Georgia  Bruce 
Kirby. 


6:?  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL    A  T  HOME, 


THE   CHINESE   EMPIRE. 

IT  is  situated  in  Kearny,  Dupont,  Jackson,  and  Sac- 
ramento Streets,  in  the  City  of  San  Francisco.  We 
traversed  it  one  afternoon,  and  went  to  its  chief  theatre 
in  the  evening.  Those  who  are  unable  to  visit  it  in  per- 
son, as  we  did,  can  learn  just  about  as  much  by  a  care- 
ful and  imaginative  study  of  Chinese  fans  and  the  out- 
sides  of  tea-chests.  Never  did  an  indefatigable  nation  so 
perpetuate  faithful  facsimile  of  itself,  its  people,  cus- 
toms, and  fashions  as  the  Chinese  do  in  the  grotesque, 
high-colored,  historical  paper  with  which  they  line,  cover, 
and  wrap  every  article  of  their  merchandise.  When  I 
first  saw  the  living  Chow  Chong  walking  before  me  on 
Montgomery  Street,  in  San  Francisco,  the  sight  had 
nothing  novel  in  it.  It  was  amusing  to  see  him  in  mo 
tion  ;  but  as  for  his  face,  figure,  and  gait,  I  had  known 
them  since  my  infancy.  In  my  seventh  year,  I  possessed 
his  portrait.  It  was  done  on  rice-paper,  and  set  in  the 
lid  of  a  box.  Afterward,  I  had  him  on  the  outside  of  a 
paper  of  crackers,  and  fired  him  off  to  celebrate  our 
superiority  as  a  nation.  I  did  not  feel  so  sure  of  our 
superiority  when  I  came  to  walk  behind  him.  In  the 
matter  of  shoes,  he  excels  us.  That  the  shoes  look  like 
junks  rather  than  shoes,  and  that  their  navigation  must 
be  a  difficult  science,  is  very  true;  but  the  breadth  of 
th^  sole  is  a  secret  of  dignity  and  equilibrium,  and  has, 
I  make  no  doubt,  a  great  deal  to  do  with  Chow  Chong's 
philosophical  serenity  of  bearing.  The  general  neat- 
ness and  cleanliness  of  his  attire,  too,  impressed  me  ; 
also  his  Christian  patience  under  the  insulting  and  cu- 
rious gaze   of  many  strangers,  who,  like   myself,  had 


THE    CHINESE   EMPIRE.  63 

never  before  seen  the  embodied  Chinese  nation  on  foot 
of  a  morning.  I  followed  him  at  a  respectful  distance  ; 
and  he  led  me  into  the  heart  of  his  country.  It  lay,  it 
seemed,  within  ten  minutes'  walk  from  my  own  hotel. 
As  I  looked  up,  and  saw  that  the  street  was  suddenly 
becoming  like  a  street  of  Pekin,  and  that  the  trades  of 
Hong  Kong,  Canton,  and  their  suburbs  were  buzzing 
on  either  hand  of  me,  a  rather  late  caution  led  me  to 
pause,  and  ask  whether  it  might  not  be  unsafe  for  me  to 
go  further. 

"  Not  at  all,  madam ;  not  at  all"  said  the  short 
policeman  to  whom  I  spoke.  "  At  this  hour  of  the  day, 
you  can  go  with  perfect  safety  through  all  these  streets." 

'•  But  1  would  not  advise  you  to  let  them  see  you  tak- 
ing notes,  however,"  he  added,  glancing  at  my  note- 
book.    "  They  are  suspicious." 

"  They  have  been  so  hardly  treated,  it  is  no  wonder,'* 
repHed  I. 

"  That's  so,  ma'am,"  answered  the  policeman,  as  he 
walked  on.  He  was  a  very  short  policeman.  I  ob- 
served it,  because  I  intended  to  mention  him  ;  and  I 
regretted  that  he  was  not  tall.  I  have  been  impressed 
with  the  fact  that  good  writers,  in  giving  accounts  of 
city  experiences,  invariably  meet  a  tall  policeman. 

In  spite  of  my  policeman,  however,  or  perhaps  be- 
cause he  was  so  short,  I  did  take  notes  ;  and  no  harm 
came  of  it.  The  men  of  China  looked  at  me,  observ- 
antly ;  now  and  then,  they  exchanged  significant  glances 
with  each  other.  One  or  two  tried  to  peep  over  my 
shoulder  ;  but,  seeing  that  I  was  not  drawing  pictures 
of  them,  they  took  no  more  interest  in  my  proceedings. 
I  looked  up  into  their  faces  and  smiled,  and  said :  "  I 
never  saw  Chinese  shops  before.  Very  good,  very 
good."  And  they  laughed,  and  moved  on,  —  no  doubt 
inwardly  moved  with  compassion  for  my  ignorance. 

Now  and  then,  a  woman  would  brush  by  me,  turn 
half  round,  and  give  me  a  quick  look  of  such  contempt 
that  I  winced  a  little.  Judged  by  her  standard,  I  must 
sipk  very  low,  indeed.     She  herself  did  not  venture  to 


64  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

walk  thus,  in  open  daylight  among  her  countrymen, 
until  she  had  lost  all  sense  of  decency,  as  bar  race  hold 
it.  What  must  I  be,  then,  —  a  white  woman,  who  had 
not  come  to  buy,  but  simply  to  look  at,  to  lift,  to  taste, 
or  to  smell  the  extraordinary  commodities  offered  for 
saie  in  the  empire  ?  No  wonder  she  despised  me  !  I 
avenge  myself  by  describing  her  hair.  It  was  all 
drawn  back  from  her  forehead,  twisted  tight  from  the 
nape  of  the  neck  to  the  crown  of  the  head,  stiffened 
with  glue,  glistening  with  oil,  and  made  into  four  huge 

•  double  wings,  which  stood  out  beyond  her  ears  on 
either  side.     It  looked  a  little  like  two  gigantic  black 

'  satin  bats,  pinned  to  the  back  of  her  head,  or  still  more 
like  a  windmill  gone  into  mourning.  Never,  no  never ! 
xiot  even  on  the  heads  of  peasant  women  in  the  German 
provinces,  was  there  seen  any  thing  so  hideous,  so  gro- 
tesque. A  huge  silver  or  gilt  dart  is  pinned  across 
these  shining  black  flaps,  which  look  no  more  Hke  hair 
than  they  do  like  sheet-iron, — nor  so  much,  for  that 
matter.  Then  comes  a  straight,  narrow  band  of  shin- 
ing black  cambric,  an  inch  wide,  tight  around  her  yellow 
neck ;  and  from  that  falls  a  loose,  shapeless  garment  of 
black  cambric, —  a  sort  of  cross  between  a  domino  and 
a  night-shirt ;  then  straight,  bagging,  flapping  sleeves 
down  to  her  knuckles  ;  then  straight,  bagging,  flapping 
blue  trowsers,  down  to  her  ankles ;  then  queer  black, 
junk-like  shoes,  turned  up  at  the  toes,  and  slipping  off 
at  the  heel  at  every  step,  —  there  she  is,  the  Chinese 
woman  of  Dupont  or  Kearny  Street  to-day  "l  Could 
she  be  uglier  ?  And  her  children  are  like  unto  her, 
oiJv  a  few  inches  shorter, — that  is  all;  and,  when 
they  go  by,  hand-in-hand,  there  is  something  pathetic 
in  the  monstrosity  of  them.  But  pass  on,  sister  ! 
In  the  sunless  recesses  of  Quong  Tuck  Lane,  I  trust 
thou  hast  had  many  a  laugh  with  thy  comrades  over 
the  gown  and  hat  I  wore  on  Dupont  Street  that  day. 

Sing,  Wo,  &  Co.  keep  one  ot  the  most  picturesque 
shops  on  Jackson  Street.  It  is  neither  grocer's,  not 
butcher's,  nor  fishmonger's,  nor  druggist's  ;  but  a  little  of 


THE    CHINESE    EMPIRE.  65 

all  four.  It  is,  like  most  of  the  shops  on  Jackson  Street, 
part  cellar,  part  cellar-stairs,  part  sidewalk,  and  part  back 
bedroom.  On  the  sidewalk  are  platters  of  innumerable 
sorts  of  little  fishes, — little  silvery  fishes  ;  little  yellow 
fishes,  with  whiskers  ;  little  snaky  fishes  ;  round,  flat 
fishes,  little  slices  of  big  fishes,  —  never  too  much  or  too 
many  of  any  kind.  Sparing  and  thrifty  dealers,  as  well 
as  sparing  and  thrifty  consumers,  are  the  Celestials. 
Round  tubs  of  sprouted  beans  ;  platters  of  square  cakes  of 
something  whose  consistency  was  hke  Dutch  cheese, 
whose  color  was  vivid  yellow,  like  bakers'  gingerbread, 
and  whose  tops  were  stamped  with  mysterious  letters  ; 
long  roots,  as  long  as  the  longest  parsnips,  but  glistening 
white,  hke  polished  turnips  ;  cherries,  tied  up  in  stingy 
little  bunches  of  ten  or  twelve,  and  swung  in  all  the 
nooks  ;  small  bunches  of  all  conceivable  green  things, 
from  celery  down  to  timothy  grass,  tied  tight  and  wedged 
into  corners,  or  swung  over  head ;  dried  herbs,  in  dim 
recesses  ;  pressed  chickens,  on  shelves  (these  were  the 
most  remarkable  things.  They  were  semi-transparent, 
thin,  skinny,  and  yellow,  and  looked  almost  more  like 
huge,  flattened  grasshoppers  than  like  chickens  ;  but 
chickens  they  were,  and  no  mistake),  — all  these  were  on 
the  trays,  on  the  sidewalk,  and  on  the  cellar-stairs.  In 
the  back  bedroom  were  Mrs.  Sing  and  Mrs.  Wo,  with 
several  little  Sings  or  Woes.  It  was  too  dark  to  see 
what  they  were  doing  ;  for  the  only  light  came  from  the 
open  front  of  the  shop,  which  seemed  to  run  back  like  a 
cave  in  a  hill.  On  shelves  on  the  sides  were  tea-cups 
and  tea-pots,  and  plates  of  fantastic  shapes  and  gay  col- 
ors. Sing  and  Wo  were  most  courteous  :  but  their 
interest  centred  entirely  on  sales  ;  and  I  could  learn 
but  one  fact  from  them,  in  regard  to  any  of  their  goods. 
It  was  either  "  Muchee  good.  Englis  man  muchee 
like  ;  "  or  else,  "  China  man  like  ;  Enghs  man  no  like." 
Why  should  I  wish  to  know  any  thing  further  than 
that  some  articles  would  be  agreeable  to  "  Englis 
man's  "  palate,  and  others  would  not .?  This  must  be 
enough  to  regulate  my  purchases.  But  I  shall  always 
S 


66  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

wish  I  knew  how  those   chickens  were  fattened,  and 
what  the  vivid  yellow  cakes  were  made  of. 

But  I  stop  too  long  with  Sing,  Wo,  &  Co.  The  street 
IS  lined  on  either  hand  with  shops  just  as  fantastic  and 
commodities  just  as  unheard  of,  —  "  Ty,  Wing,  &  Co.," 
for  instance,  who  have  mysterious,  tight-shut  doors  and 
red  and  yellow  printed  labels  on  their  window-panes,  but 
not  an  article  of  merchandise  anywhere  to  be  seen. 
Inside,  only  darkness  and  dust  and  cobwebs,  and  two 
Chinese  women  eating  something  out  of  a  bowl  with 
chopsticks,  —  one  bowl,  resting  on  all  four  of  their  knees, 
pressed  tight  together,  and  the  four  chopsticks  flying 
like  shuttle-cocks,  back  and  forth  between  their  mouths 
and  the  bowl.  This  was  all  that  two  eager  eyes,  peer- 
ing into  the  windows,  could  see.  Then  comes  "  Miss 
Flynn,  milliner."  Adventurous  Irishwoman,  to  set  up 
her  shop  in  the  heart  of  this  Chinese  Empire,  —  the 
only  foreigner  on  the  street.  Then  comes  a  druggist, 
"  Chick  Kee  "  by  name.  Over  his  door  is  stretched  a  scar- 
let banner,  with  long  tassels  at  the  corners.  Peacocks' 
feathers  and  great,  plume-like  bunches  of  fringed  blue 
and  yellow  and  green  papers  are  nodding  above  the  ban- 
ner. Up  and  down  on  each  side,  in  long,  narrow  stripes, 
is  printed  his  sign.  It  is  marvellously  gay,  having  all 
the  colors  of  the  banner  and  the  feathers  and  the  papers 
in  it ;  but  the  only  thing  in  his  window  is  a  flat  and  shal- 
low basket,  with  some  dusty  bits  of  old  dried  roots  in  it 
They  look  as  old  as  forgotten  flag-root  from  Cotton  Math 
er's  meeting-house.  Chick  Kee  sits  on  his  empty  coun- 
ter, smoking  as  tranquilly  as  if  everybody  had  died  or  got 
well,  and  he  had  left  off  buying  drugs.  Tuck  Wo  keeps 
a  restaurant,  near  by.  It  is  in  a  cellar  ;  and  I  dare 
not  go  down.  But  I  see  from  above  four  iron  pots, 
boiling  on  Httle  three-legged  furnaces ;  tea-cups  and 
saucers,  on  shelves  in  corners ;  and  great  plates  of 
rolls  of  the  fatal  nut,  ready  to  be  chewed  ;  also  a  square 
cake,  of  the  vivid  yellow.  I  despise  myself  for  be- 
ing afraid  to  taste  that  cake  ;  but  I  am.  It  looks  so 
like  bar-soap,  half  saleratus,  or  saleratus-gingerbread, 
half  soap. 


THE   CHINESE    EMPIRE.  67 

•*  Moo,  On,  &  Co."  come  next.  Their  shop  is  full, 
crowded  full,  —  bags,  bundles,  casks,  shelves,  piles, 
bunches  of  utterly  nondescript  articles.  It  sounds  like 
an  absurd  exaggeration,  but  it  is  literally  true,  that  the 
only  articles  in  his  shop  which  I  ever  saw  before  are  bot- 
tles. There  are  a  few  of  those  ;  but  the  purpose,  use, 
or  meaning  of  every  other  article  is  utterly  unknown  to 
me.  There  are  things  that  look  like  games,  like  toys, 
like  lamps,  like  idols,  Hke  utensils  of  lost  trades,  like  rel- 
ics of  lost  tribes,  like  —  well,  like  a  pawnbroker's  stock, 
just  brought  from  some  other  world  !  That  comes  near- 
est to  it.  "Moo,  On,  &  Co."  have  apparently  gone 
back  for  more.  Nobody  is  in  the  shop  ;  the  door  is 
wide  open.  I  wait  and  wait,  hoping  that  some  one  will 
come  along  who  caa  speak  English,  and  of  whom  I  may 
ask  what  this  extraordinary  show  means.  Timidly  I 
touch  a  fluttering  bit,  which  hangs  outside.  It  is  not 
paper  ;  it  is  not  cloth  ;  it  is  not  woollen,  silk,  nor  straw  ; 
it  is  not  leather  ;  it  is  not  cobweb  ;  it  is  not  alive  ;  it  is 
not  dead  :  it  crisps  and  curls  at  my  touch  ;  it  waves 
backward,  though  no  air  blows  it.  A  sort  of  horror 
seizes  me.  It  may  be  a  piece  of  an  ancestor  of  Moo's, 
doing  ghostly  duty  at  his  shop-door.  I  hasten  on,  and 
half  fancy  that  it  is  behind  me,  as  I  halt  before  Dr.  Li  Po 
Tai's  door.  His  promises  to  cure,  diplomas,  and  so  forth, 
are  printed  in  gay-colored  strips  of  labels  on  each  side. 
Six  bright  balloons  swing  overhead  ;  and  peacocks'  feath- 
ers are  stuck  into  the  balloons.  I  have  heard  that  Dr.  Li 
Po  Tai  is  a  learned  man,  and  works  cures.  His  balloons 
are  certainly  very  briUiant.  Then  comes  a  tailor,  name 
unknown,  sitting  on  the  sidewalk,  at  work.  Then  an  aris- 
tocratic boot-black,  with  a  fantastic,  gay-colored  awning 
set  up  over  the  insignia  of  his  calling.  Then,  drollest  of 
all,  an  old,  old  woman,  mending  a  Chinese  toga.  I  call  it 
a  toga,  because  I  do  not  know  the  Chinese  name  for  it ; 
and  it  is  no  more  unlike  a  toga  than  it  is  unlike  a  coat. 
The  old  lady  sits  on  a  low  stool,  with  half  a  dozen  boxes 
of  patches  around  her,  all  scrupulously  sorted,  according 
to  color  and  fabric  ;  an  old,  battered  box  of  buttons,  too, 


68  BITS  OF   TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

and  thread  at  her  feet,  —  the  very  ideal  of  a  housewife  at 
large  ;  mender  to  a  race  !  Every  now  and  then,  she 
chants  a  few  words,  in  a  low  voice,  to  which  nobody 
seems  to  listen.  I  suppose  it  is  Chinese  for  "  Here's 
your  warm  patches,"  "  Trowsers  sewed  up  here  ;  "  or, 
if  there  is  such  a  thing  in  the  Chinese  Empire  as  a  con- 
stitution, and  if  they  have  a  Woman's  Rii^hts  party,  per- 
haps some  wag  has  taught  her  to  call.  "  Here's  your  Six- 
teenth Amendment."  That  is  what  first  came  into  my 
head,  as  I  looked  at  the  poor,  wrinkled,  forlorn  old 
creature,  sewing  away  on  the  hopelessly  ragged  gar- 
ment. 

Then  comes  a  corner  stand,  with  glass  cases  of  can- 
dles. Almond  candy,  with  grains  of  rice  thick  on  the 
top ;  little  bowls  of  pickles,  pears,  and  peppers  ;  plat- 
ters of  odd-shaped  nuts  ;  and  beans  baked  black  as 
coffee.  As  I  stand  looking  curiously  at  these,  a  well- 
dressed  Chinaman  pauses  before  me,  and,  making  a 
gesture  with  his  hand  toward  the  stand,  says:  "All 
muchee  good.  Buy  eat.  Muchee  good."  Hung  Wung, 
the  proprietor,  is  kindled  to  hospitality  by  this,  and  re- 
peats the  words  :  "  Yaas,  muchee  good.  Take,  eat," 
offering  me,  with  the  word,  the  bowl  of  peppers. 

Next  comes  a  very  gay  restaurant,  the  best  in  the 
Empire.  "  Hang  Fee,  Low  &  Co."  keep  it,  and  for- 
eigners go  there  to  drink  tea.  There  is  a  green  railed 
balcony  across  the  front,  swinging  full  of  high-colored 
lanterns,  round  and  square  ;  tablets  with  Chinese  let- 
ters on  bright  grounds  are  set  in  panels  on  the  walls  ; 
a  huge  rhinoceros  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  railing ;  a 
tree  grows  out  of  the  rhinoceros's  back,  and  an  India- 
rubber  man  sits  at  foot  of  the  tree.  China  figures  and 
green  bushes  in  flower-pots  are  ranged  all  along  the 
railing.  Nowhere  except  in  the  Chinese  Empire  can 
there  be  seen  such  another  gaudy,  grotesque  house- 
front.  We  make  an  appointment  on  the  spot  to  take 
some  of  Hang  Fee's  tea,  on  our  way  to  the  Chinese 
Theatre,  the  next  evening  ;  and  then  we  hurry  home, 
past  dozens   more   of  just   such   gr'  iesque   shops  as 


THE  CHINESE  EMPIRE.  69 

these,  past  finer  and  more  showy  shops,  filled  with 
just  such  Japanese  and  Chinese  goods  as  we  can  buy  on 
Broadway  in  New  York;  past  dark  lanes,  so  narrow 
that  two  might  shake  hands  from  opposite  windows  ; 
so  black  that  one  fancies  the  walls  are  made  of  char- 
coal ;  so  alive  with  shiny  black  Chinese  heads  and 
shiny  yellow  Chinese  faces  that  one  thinks  invol 
untarily  of  a  swarm  of  Spanish  flies  ;  then  round  a 
corner,  and  presto !  there  we  are  in  America  again, 
—  on  Montgomery  street,  which  might  be  Broadway, 
for  all  that  there  is  distinctive  in  its  shops  or  its 
crowd  of  people.  We  turn  back  in  bewilderment,  and 
retrace  our  steps  a  little  way  into  the  Empire  again,  to 
make  sure  that  it  was  not  a  dream  !  No.  There  are 
the  lanterns,  the  peacock  feathers,  the  rhinoceros  ;  and 
there  is  Dr.  Li  Po  Tai  himself,  in  a  damask  dressing- 
gown,  embossed  with  birds  of  paradise  and  palm-trees, 
bowing  out  a  well-dressed  Caucasian  of  our  own  species 
from  his  door.  To  complete  the  confusion,  the  Cau- 
casian steps  nimbly  into  a  yellow  horse-car,  which  at 
that  instant  chances  to  be  passing  Dr.  Li  Po  Tai's 
door ;  and  we  float  back  again,  side  by  side  in  the 
crowd  with  a  Chinese  man-washerwoman,  round  the 
corner,  into  Montgomery  street. 

After  all,  we  did  not  take  tea  at  Hang  Fee's,  on  our 
way  to  the  theatre.  There  was  not  time.  As  it  was, 
we  were  late  ;  and  when  we  entered  the  orchestra  had 
begun  to  "play.  Orchestra !  It  is  necessary  to  use 
that  name,  I  suppose,  in  speaking  of  a  body  of  men 
with  instruments,  who  are  seated  on  a  stage,  furnishing 
what  is  called  music  for  a  theatrical  performance.  But 
it  is  a  term  calculated  to  mislead  in  this  instance. 
Fancy  one  frog-pond,  one  Sunday  school  with  pump- 
kin whistles,  one  militia  training,  and  two  gongs  for 
supper,  on  a  Fall  River  boat,  all  at  once,  and  you  will 
have  some  faint  idea  of  the  indescribable  noise  which 
saluted  our  ears  on  entering  that  theatre.  To  say  that 
we  were  deafened  is  nothing.  The  hideous  hubbub  of 
din  seemed  to   overleap  and   transcend   all  laws  and 


70  BITS  OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

spheres  of  sound.  It  was  so  loud  we  could  not  see  ;  it 
was  so  loud  we  could  not  breathe ;  it  was  so  loud 
there  didn't  seem  to  be  any  room  to  sit  down  !  The 
theatre  was  small  and  low  and  dark.  The  pit  and 
greater  part  of  the  gallery  were  filled  with  Chinamen, 
all  smoking.  One  corner  of  the  gallery  was  set  apart 
for  women.  That  was  full,  also,  with  Chinese  women. 
Every  woman's  hair  was  dressed  in  the  manner  I  have 
described.  The  bat-like  flaps  projected  so  far  on  each 
side  of  each  head  that  each  woman  seemed  almost  to 
be  joined  to  her  neighbors  by  a  cartilaginous  band  ; 
and,  as  they  sat  almost  motionless,  this  eifect  Was 
heightened.  The  stage  had  no  pretence  of  scenery.  It 
was  hung  with  gay  banners  and  mysterious  labels. 
Tall  plumes  of  peacock's  feathers  in  the  corners  and 
some  irregularly  placed  chairs  were  all  the  furniture. 
The  orchestra  sat  in  chairs,  at  the  back  of  the  stage. 
Some  of  them  smoked  in  the  intervals,  some  drank  tea. 
A  little  boy  who  drummed  went  out  when  he  felt  like 
it;  and  the  fellow  with  the  biggest  gong  had  evidently 
no  plan  of  operations  at  all,  except  to  gong  as  long  as 
his  arms  could  bear  it,  then  rest  a  minute,  and  then 
gong  again.  "  Oh  !  well,"  said  we,  as  we  wedged  and 
squeezed  through  the  narrow  passage-way  which  led  to 
our  box,  "it  will  only  last  a  few  minutes.  We  shall 
not  entirely  lose  our  hearing."  Fatal  delusion !  It 
never  stopped.  The  actors  came  out ;  the  play  began  , 
the  play  went  on  ;  still  the  hideous  hubbub  of  din  con- 
tinued, and  was  made  unspeakably  more  hideous  by 
the  voices  of  the  actors,  which  were  raised  to  the 
shrillest  falsetto  to  surmount  the  noise,  and  which 
sounded  hke  nothing  in  Nature  except  the  voices  of 
frantic  cats. 

This  appears  preposterous.  Almost  I  fear  I  shall 
not  be  beheved.  But  I  will  leave  it  to  any  jury  of 
twelve  who  have  been  to  the  Chinese  Theatre  if  it  be 
possible  for  language  even  to  approach  a  true  descrip- 
tion of  the  horribleness  of  the  noises  heard  on  its  stage. 
What  may  be  the  sounds  of  the  Chinese  language,  as 


THE    CHINESE    EMPIRE.  71 

spoken  in  ordinary  life,  I  cannot  judo;e.  But,  as  in- 
toned in  the  theatrical  screech,  with  the  constant  un- 
dertone and  overtone  of  the  gongs  and  drums,  it  is 
incredibly  like  caterwauling.  Throw  in  a  few  "  ch  "s 
and  "ts  "s  into  the  common  caterwaul  of  the  midnight 
cat,  and  you  have  the  highest  art  of  the  Chinese  stage, 
so  far  as  it  can  be  judged  of  simply  by  sound.  We 
have  amused  ourselves  by  practising  it,  by  writing  it  ; 
and  each  experiment  has  but  confirmed  our  impression 
of  the  wonderful  similarity.  At  first,  in  spite  of  the 
deafening  loudness  of  the  din,  it  is  ludicrous  beyond 
conception.  To  see  these  superbly  dressed  Chinese 
creatures, — every  one  of  them  as  perfectly  and  ex- 
quisitely dressed  as  the  finest  figures  on  their  satin 
fans  or  rice-paper  pictures,  and  looking  exactly  like 
them,  —  to  see  these  creatures  strutting  and  sailing  and 
sweeping  and  bowing  and  bending,  beating  their  breasts 
and  tearing  their  beards,  gesticulating  and  rushing 
about  in  an  utterly  incomprehensible  play,  with  cater- 
wauling screams  issuing  from  their  mouths,  is  for  a  few 
minutes  so  droll  that  you  laugh  till  the  tears  run,  and 
think  you  will  go  to  the  Chinese  Theatre  every  night  as 
long  as  you  stay  in  San  Francisco.  I  said  so  to  the 
friend  who  had  politely  gone  with  me.  He  had 
been  to  the  performance  before.  He  smiled  pityingly, 
and  yawned  behind  his  hand.  At  the  end  of  half  an 
hour,  I  whispered:  "Twice  a  week  will  do."  In  fif- 
teen minutes  more,  I  said:  "I  think  we  will  go  out 
now.  I  can't  endure  this  racket  another  minute.  But, 
nevertheless,  I  shall  come  once  more,  with  an  inter- 
preter. I  must  and  will  know  what  all  this  mummery 
means." 

The  friend  smiled  again  incredulously.  But  we  did 
go  again,  with  an  interpreter  ;  and  the  drollest  thing  of 
all  was  to  find  out  how  very  little  all  the  caterwauling 
and  rushing  and  bending  and  bowling  and  sweeping  and 
strutting  really  meant.  The  difficulty  of  getting  an 
interpreter,  was  another  interesting  feature  in  the  oc- 
casion.    A  lady,  who  had  formerly  been  a  missionary 


72  BITS  OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOMK- 

in  China,  had  promised  to  go  with  us  ;  and,  as  even 
she  was  not  sure  of  being  able  to  understand  Chinese 
caterwauled,  she  proposed  to  take  one  of  the  boys  from 
the  missionary  school,  to  interpret  to  her  before  she 
interpreted  to  us.     So  we  drove  to  the  school.     Mrs. 

went  in.     The  time  seemed  very  long  that  we 

waited.  At  last  she  came  back,  looking  both  amused 
and  vexed,  to  report  that  not  one  of  those  intelligent 
Christian  Chinees  would  leave  his  studies  that  evening 
to  go  to  the  theatre. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  an  old  story  to  them,"  said  I. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  she.  "  On  the  contrary,  hardly  a 
boy  there  has  been  inside  the  theatre.  But  they  can- 
not bear  to  lose  a  minute  from  their  lessons.  Mr. 
Loomis  really  urged  some  of  them ;  but  it  was  of  no 
use." 

In  a  grocery  shop  on  Kearny  street,  however,  we 
found  a  clever  young  man,  less  absorbed  in  learning ; 
and  he  went  with  us  as  interpreter.  Again  the  same 
hideous  din  ;  the  same  clouds  of  smoke  ;  the  same  hub- 
bub of  caterwauling.  But  the  dramatis  persona  were 
few.  Luckily  for  us,  our  first  lesson  in  the  Chinese 
drama  was  to  be  a  simple  one.  And  here  I  pause, 
considering  whether  my  account  of  this  play  will  be 
believed.  This  is  the  traveller's  great  perplexity.  The 
incredible  things  are  always  the  only  things  worth  tell- 
ing ;  but  is  it  best  to  tell  them  1 

The  actors  in  this  play  were  three,  —  a  lady  of  rank, 
her  son,  and  her  man  cook.  The  play  opened  with  a 
soliloquy  by  the  lady.  She  is  sitting  alone,  sewing. 
Her  husband  has  gone  to  America ;  he  did  not  bid  her 
farewell.  Her  only  son  is  at  school.  She  is  sad  and 
lonely.     She  weeps. 

Enter  boy.     He  asks  if  dinner  is  ready. 

Enter  cook.  Cook  says  it  is  not  time.  Boy  says  he 
wants  dinner.  Cook  says  he  shall  not  have  it.  This 
takes  fifteen  minutes. 

Mother  examines  boy  on  his  lessons.  Boy  does  not 
know  them ;  tries  to  peep.     Mother  reproves  ;   makes 


THE    CHINESE   EMPIRE.  73 

boy  kneel ;  prepares  to  whip  ;  whips.  Mother  weeps. 
Boy  catches  flies  on  the  floor ;  bites  her  finger. 

Enter  cook  to  see  what  the  noise  means.  Cook 
takes  boy  to  task.  Boy  stops  his  ears.  Cook  bawls. 
Cook  kneels  to  lady ;  reproves  her  also ;  tells  her  she 
must  keep  her  own  temper,  if  she  would  train  her  boy. 

Lady  sulks,  naturally.  Boy  slips  behind  and  cuts 
her  work  out  of  her  embroidery  frame.  Cook  attacks 
boy.  Cook  sings  a  lament,  and  goes  out  to  attend  to 
dinner  ;  but  returns  in  frantic  distress.  During  his 
absence  every  thing  has  boiled  over  ;  every  thing  has 
been  burned  to  a  crisp.  Dinner  is  ruined.  Cook  now 
reconciles  mother  and  son  ;  drags  son  to  his  knees ; 
makes  him  repeat  words  of  supplication.  While  he 
does  this,  cook  turns  his  back  to  the  audience,  takes  off 
his  beard  carefully,  lays  it  on  the  floor,  while  he  drinks 
a  cup  full  of  tea.     Exit  all,  happy  and  smiling. 

This  is  all,  literally  all !  It  took  an  hour  and  a  half. 
The  audience  listened  with  intensest  interest.  The 
gesticulations,  the  expressions  of  face,  the  tones  of  the 
actors  all  conveyed  the  idea  of  the  deepest  tragedy. 
Except  for  our  interpreter,  I  should  have  taken  the 
cook  for  a  soothsayer,  priest,  a  highwayman  and  mur- 
derer, alternately.  I  should  ha^-e  supposed  that  all 
the  dangers,  hopes,  fears,  dehghts  possible  in  the  lives 
of  three  human  beings  were  going  on  on  that  stage. 
Now  we  saw  how  very  far-fetched  and  preposterous 
had  probably  been  our  theories  of  the  play  we  had  seen 
before,  we  having  constructed  a  most  brilliant  plot 
from  our  interpretation  of  the  pantomine. 

After  this  domestic  drama  came  a  fierce  spectacular 
play,  too  absurd  to  be  described,  in  which  nations  went 
to  war  because  a  king's  monkey  had  been  killed.  And 
the  kings  and  their  armies  marched  in  at  one  door  and 
out  at  the  other,  sat  on  gilt  thrones,  fought  with  gilt 
swords,  tumbled  each  other  head  over  heels  with  as 
much  vigor  and  just  about  as  much  art  as  small  boys 
play  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  with  the  nursery  chairs 
on  a  rainy  day.     But  the  dresses  of  these  warlike  mon- 


74  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

arcbs  were  gorgeous  and  fantastic  beyond  description. 
Long,  gay-colored  robes,  blazoned  and  blazing  with 
gold  and  silver  embroidery ;  small  flags,  two  on  each 
side,  stuck  in  at  their  shoulders,  and  projecting  behind ; 
helmets,  square  breastplates  of  shining  stones,  and 
such  decorations  with  feathers  as  pass  belief.  Several  of 
them  had  behind  each  ear  a  long,  slender  bird  of  Para- 
dise feather.  These  feathers  reached  out  at  least  three 
feet  behind,  and  curved  and  swayed  with  each  step  the 
man  took.  When  three  or  four  of  these  were  on  the 
stage  together,  marching  and  countermarching,  wrest- 
ling, fighting,  and  tumbling,  why  these  tail-feathers  did 
not  break,  did  not  become  entangled  with  each  other, 
no  mortal  can  divine.  Others  had  huge  wings  of  silver 
filagree  work  behind  their  ears.  These  also  swayed 
and  flapped  at  each  step. 

Sometimes  there  would  be  forty  or  fifty  of  these 
nondescript  creatures  on  the  stage  at  once,  running, 
gesticulating,  attacking,  retreating,  howling,  bowing, 
bending,  tripping  each  other  up,  stalking,  strutting,  anci 
all  the  while  caterwauling,  and  all  the  while  the  drums 
beating,  the  gongs  ringing,  and  the  stringed  instruments 
and  the  castanets  and  the  fifes  playing.  It  was  daz- 
zling as  a  gigantic  kaleidoscope  and  deafening  as  a 
cotton-mill.  After  the  plays  came  wonderful  tumbling 
and  somersaulting.  To  see  such  gymnastic  feats  per- 
formed by  men  in  long  damask  night-gowns  and  with 
wide  trousers  is  uncommonly  droll.  This  is  really  the 
best  thing  at  the  Chinese  Theatre, — the  only  thing,  in 
fact,  which  is  not  incomprehensibly  childish. 

My  last  glimpse  of  the  Chinese  Empire  was  in  Mr. 
Loomis's  Sunday  school.  I  had  curiosity  to  see  the 
faces  of  the  boys  who  had  refused  our  invitation  to  tht. 
theatre.  As  soon  as  I  entered  the  room,  I  was  asked 
to  take  charge  of  a  class.  In  vain  I  demurred  and  re- 
fused. 

"You  surely  can  hear  them  read  a  chapter  in  the 
New  Testament." 

It  seemed  inhuman  as  well  as  unchristian  to  refuse, 


THE    CHINESE   EMPIRE.  75 

for  there  were  several  classes  without  teachers,  —  many 
good  San  Franciscans  having  gone  into  the  country. 
There  were  the  eager  yellow  faces  watching  for  my 
reply.  So  I  sat  down  in  a  pew  with  three  Chinese 
young  men  on  my  right  hand,  two  on  my  lelt,  and  four 
in  the  pew  in  front,  all  with  English  and  Chinese  Tes- 
taments in  their  hands.  The  lesson  for  the  day  was  the 
fifteenth  chapter  of  Matthew.  They  read  slowly,  but 
with  greater  accuracy  of  emphasis  and  pronunciation 
than  I  expected.  Their  patience  and  eagerness  in  try- 
ing to  correct  a  mispronunciation  were  touching.  At 
last  came  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

"  Now  do  you  go  on  to  the  next  chapter  ?  "  said  I. 

"  No.  Arx-play-in,"  said  the  brightest  of  the  boys. 
"  You  arx-play-in  what  we  rade  to  you." 

I  wished  the  floor  of  that  Sunday-school  chapel 
would  open  and  swallow  me  up.  To  expound  the  fif- 
teenth of  Matthew  at  all,  above  all  to  expound  it  in 
English  which  those  poor  souls  could  understand  !  In 
despair  I  glanced  at  the  clock,  —  it  lacked  thirty  min- 
utes of  the  end  of  school ;  at  the  other  teachers,  —  they 
were  all  ghbly  expounding.  Guiltily,  1  said :  "  Very 
well.  Begin  and  read  the  chapter  over  again,  very 
slowly ;  and  when  you  come  to  any  word  you  do  not 
understand  tell  me,  and  I  will  try  to  explain  it  to  you." 

Their  countenances  fell.  This  was  not  the  way  they 
usually  had  been  taught.  But,  with  the  meekness  of  a 
down-trodden  people,  they  obeyed.  It  worked  even 
better  than  I  had  hoped.  Poor  souls  !  they  probably  did 
not  understand  enough  to  select  the  v/ords  which  per- 
plexed them.  They  trudged  patiently  through  their 
verses  again,  without  question.  But  my  Charybdis 
was  near.  The  sixth  verse  came  to  the  brightest  boy. 
As  he  read,  "  Thus  have  ye  made  the  commandment  ol 
God  of  none  effect  by  your  tradition,"  he  paused  after 
the  word  tradition.     I  trembled. 

"Arx-play-in  trardition  !  "  he  said. 

"  What  ?  "  said  I,  feebly,  to  gain  a  second's  more 
time.     "  What  word  did  you  say  ?  " 


76  BITS  OF   TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

"  Trardition  !  "  he  persisted.  "  What  are  trardition  ? 
Arx-play-in  !  " 

What  I  said  I  do  not  know.  Probably  I  should  not 
tell  if  I  did.  But  I  am  very  sure  that  never  in  all  my 
life  have  I  found  myself  and  never  in  all  the  rest  of  my 
life  shall  I  find  myself  in  so  utterly  desperate  a  dilemma 
as  I  was  then,  with  those  patient,  earnest,  oblique  eyes 
fixed  on  me,  and  the  gentle  Chinese  voice  reiterating, 
"  What  are  trardition  1 " 


SAN  FRANCISCO  77 


SAN   FRANCISCO. 

WHEN  I  first  stepped  out  of  the  door  of  the  Occi- 
dental Hotel,  on  Montgomery  street,  in  San 
Francisco,  I  looked  up  and  down  in  disappointment. 

"Is  this  all?"  I  exclaimed.  "It  is  New  York,  —  a 
little  lower  of  story,  narrower  of  street,  and  stiller,  per- 
haps. Have  I  crossed  a  continent  only  to  land  in 
Lower  Broadway  on  a  dull  day  .? " 

I  looked  into  the  shop-windows.  The  identical  hats, 
collars,  neckties  for  men,  the  identical  tortoise-shell 
and  gold  ear-rings  for  women,  which  I  had  left  behind 
on  the  corners  of  Canal  and  Broome  streets,  stared  me 
in  the  face.  Eager  hack-drivers,  whip-handles  in  air, 
accosted  me,  —  all  brothers  of  the  man  who  drove  me  to 
the  Erie  Raih-oad  station,  on  the  edge  of  tlie  Atlantic 
Ocean,  ten  days  before. 

"  What  do  you  ask  an  hour  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Three  dollars,"  said  they  all. 

"  Three  dollars  !  "  echoed  I,  in  astonishment.  But  I 
jumped  in,  glad  of  any  sensation  of  novelty,  even  so 
high-priced  a  one,  and  said  :  — 

"  Show  me  all  you  can  of  your  city  in  an  hour." 

Presto.  In  one  minute  we  had  turned  a  sharp  cor- 
ner, left  the  dull  shops  behind,  and  plunged  into  scenes 
unfamiliar  enough.  I  no  longer  wondered  at  the  dear- 
ness  of  the  driving.  The  street  was  as  steep  as  the 
street  of  an  Alpine  village.  Men  and  women  walkiug 
up  its  sidewalks  were  bowed  over,  as  if  nobody  were 
less  than  ninety.  Those  walking  down  had  their  bodies 
slanted  back  and  their  knees  projecting  in  front,  as 
people  come  down  mountains.     The  horses  went  at  4 


7^  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

fast  walk,  almost  a  trot.  On  corners,  the  driver  reined 
them  up,  turned  them  at  a  sharp  angle,  and  stopped 
them  to  breathe  a  minute. 

The  houses  were  small,  wooden,  light-colored,  pic- 
turesque. Hardly  any  two  were  of  the  same  height, 
same  style,  or  tint.  High  steps  ran  up  to  the  front 
doors.  In  many  instances,  when  the  house  was  built 
very  much  up-hill,  the  outside  stair-case  curved  and 
wound,  to  make  the  climb  easier.  Each  house  had  a 
little  yard.  Many  had  small  square  gardens.  Every 
nook  and  cranny  and  corner  that  could  hold  a  flower 
did.  Roses  and  geraniums  and  fuchsias,  all  in  full 
blossom,  —  callas,  growing  rank  and  high,  and  evidently 
held  in  no  great  esteem,  —  set,  great  thickets  of  them, 
under  stairways  and  behind  gates.  Again  and  again  I 
saw  clumps  which  had  dozens  of  the  regal  alabaster 
cups  waving  among  their  green  pennons  four  feet  high. 
Tvy  geraniums  clambered  all  over  railings  and  flowered 
at  every  twist.  Acacias  and  palms,  and  many  of  the 
rare  tropical  trees  which  we  are  used  to  seeing  in 
conservatories  at  the  East,  were  growing  luxuriantly  in 
these  ghttering  little  door-yards.  Some  of  the  houses 
were  almost  incredibly  small,  square,  one  story  high, 
with  a  door  in  the  middle,  between  t\vo  small  windows. 
Their  queer  flat  roofs  and  winding  ladders  of  steps  in 
front,  with  gay  flowers  all  around,  made  you  feel  as  if 
some  fanciful  and  artistic  babies  must  have  run  away 
and  gone  to  housekeeping  in  a  stolen  box.  Others 
were  two  stories  high,  or  even  two  and  a  half,  with 
pretty  little  dormer  or  balconied  windows  jutting  out 
in  the  second  story ;  but  there  were  none  large,  none  in 
the  least  elegant,  all  of  wood,  painted  in  light  shades  of 
buff,  yellow  or  brown,  the  yellow  predominating  ;  all 
with  more  or  less  carved  work  about  the  eaves,  window- 
tops,  and  doors,  and  all  bright  with  flowers.  In  many 
of  the  gardens  stood  a  maid-servant,  watering  the  plants 
with  a  hose.  Not  one  drop  of  rain  had  these  gay  little 
parterres  had  for  a  month  ;  not  a  drop  would  they  havf 
for  three  months  to  come.     These  were  evidently  the 


SAN  FRANCISCO.  79 

homes  of  the  comfortable  middle  class  of  San  Fran- 
cisco. I  am  a  little  ashamed  of  having  forgotten  the 
names  of  these  streets.  There  were  several  streets  of 
this  sort;  but  who  wishes  to  find  them  must  take  his 
chance,  as  I  did.  There  are  horse-cars  that  run  through 
two  or  three  of  them,  up  and  down  such  grades  as  I 
never  saw  horse-cars  on  elsewhere. 

Then  there  are  broader  streets  running  along  these 
hills  ;  a  street  taking  its  up-hill  widthwise,  which  has 
a  curious  effect  in  the  steepest  places.  Some  of  these 
streets  are  full  of  shops.  I  think  they  are  the  Bowery 
and  Sixth  Avenue  of  San  Francisco.  Others,  higher 
up,  are  chiefly  filled  with  dwelling-houses,  —  many  of 
them  very  handsome,  with  large  gardens  ;  some  with 
what  might  almost  be  called  grounds  about  them  ;  and 
all  commanding  superb  views  of  the  bay  and  the  part  of 
the  city  lying  below.  It  is  odd  to  stand  on  the  corner 
of  a  street  an"d  look  off  over  chimneys  of  houses  only 
two  streets  off  ;  but  you  do  it  constantly  among  the  ups 
and  downs  of  San  Francisco,  —  in  many  of  the  streets, 
in  fact  in  all  of  them.  You  see  also  the  most  ludicrous 
propinquities  of  incongruous  homes.  For  instance, 
"  Wang  Fo  "  takes  in  washing,  in  a  shed,  next  door  to 
a  large  and  handsome  house,  with  palm-trees  and  roses 
growing  thickly  on  all  sides  of  it.  The  incongruities  of 
base-Hne  are  still  more  starthng.  One  man,  who  builds 
on  a  bit  of  hill  —  and  no  man  builds  on  any  thing  else 
—  cuts  it  down,  before  he  begins,  to  something  like  the 
level  of  his  neighbor's  house.  But  the  next  man  who 
comes  along,  having  no  prejudice  against  stairs,  sets  his 
house  on  the  very  top  of  the  pinnacle,  and  climbs  up 
forty  steps  to  his  front  door. 

I  ought  to  have  said  that  it  was  going  away  from  the 
sea  that  I  found  these  streets.  Going  seaward,  and 
bearing  to  the  south,  you  find  still  sharper  hills,  still 
more  picturesque  streets.  To  reach  them,  you  have  to 
go  through  whole  tracts  of  business  streets,  ordinary 
and  shabby  houses ;  but,  once  there,  you  understand 
why  it  should  be  the  West  End  of  San  Francisco. 


So  BITS   OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

The  names  of  these  streets  also  i  forget :  but  how 
can  it  matter  ?  They  lie  on  and  along  crags,  not  hills. 
Strangers  coming  to  hve  there  are  warned  by  physicians 
not  to  walk,  to  their  houses  by  the  steepest  way.  There 
are  many  instances  of  heart  disease  in  San  Francisco, 
brought  on  by  walking  too  perpetually  up  and  down 
steep  places.  Many  of  the  houses  on  these  highest  sea- 
ward streets  are  handsome,  and  have  pleasant  grounds 
about  them.  But  they  are  not  so  distinctively  and 
peculiarly  picturesque  and  sunny  and  homelike  as  the 
cheaper  little  flower-fronted  houses  on  the  other  side  of 
the  city.  And,  going  only  a  few  steps  further  seaward, 
you  come  to  or  you  look  down  on  crowded  lanes,  of 
dingy,  tumbling,  forlorn  buildings,  which  seem  as  if  they 
must  be  for  ever  slipping  into  the  water.  As  you  look 
up  at  the  city  from  the  harbor,  this  is  the  most  notice- 
able thing.  The  hills  rise  so  sharply  and  the  houses  are 
set  on  them  at  such  incredible  angles  that  it  wouldn't 
surprise  you,  any  day  when  you  are  watching  it,  to  see 
the  city  shde  down  whole  streets  at  a  time.  If  San 
Francisco  had  known  that  it  was  to  be  a  city,  and  if 
(poor,  luckless  place  that  it  is,  spite  of  all  its  luck)  it 
had  not  burnt  down  almost  faster  than  it  could  build 
up,  it  might  have  set  on  its  myriad  hills  a  city  which  the 
world  could  hardly  equal.  But,  as  it  is,  it  is  hopelessly 
crowded  and  mixed,  and  can  never  look  from  the  water 
like  any  thing  but  a  toppling  town. 

But  nothing  can  mar  the  beauty  of  its  outlying  circles 
of  hills.  The  bay  chose  well  its  stopping-place.  They 
curve  and  lap  and  arch  and  stretch  and  sink,  as  if  at 
some  time  the  very  sands  had  been  instinct  with  joy  and 
invitation  and  passion  and  rest.  Who  knows  the  spells 
of  shorei,  the  secrets  of  seas  ?  '  Surely  the  difference 
between  stern,  frowning,  inaccessible  cliffs,  against 
which  waters  dash,  but  cannot  prevail,  and  soft,  wooing 
beaches,  up  which  waves  sweep  far  as  they  like,  is  not 
an  insignificant  fact  in  Nature  Does  anybody  believe 
that,  if  the  Pilgrims  had  landed  where  Father  Junipero 
Serra's  missionaries  did,  witches  would  have  been  burnt 


SAN  FRANCISCO.  8 1 

in  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  ?  Or  that  if  gold  strewed  the 
ground  to-day  from  Cape  Cod  to  Berkshire,  a  Massa- 
chusetts man  would  ever  spend  it  like  a  Californian  ? 
This  is  the  key-note  to  much  which  the  expectation  and 
prophecy  about  California  seem  to  me  to  overlook.  I 
believe  that  the  lasting  power,  the  true  culture,  the  best, 
most  roundest  result  —  physical,  moral,  mental,  —  of 
our  national  future  will  not  spring  on  the  Western  shore, 
any  more  than  on  the  Eastern.  It  Hes  to-day  like  a 
royal  heir,  hidden  in  secret,  crowned  with  jewels,  dow- 
ered with  gold  and  silver,  nurtured  on  strengths  of  the 
upper  airs  of  the  Sierras,  biding  the  day  when  two 
peoples,  meeting  midway  on  the  continent,  shall  estab- 
lish the  true  centre  and  the  complete  life. 

It  takes  one  hundred  pages  of  Bancroft's  "Guide- 
book "  to  instruct  strangers  what  to  see  in  San  Francisco 
and  how  to  see  it,  —  one  hundred  pages  full  of  hotels, 
markets,  meeting-houses,  car-routes,  museums,  men- 
ageries, public  schools,  asylums,  hospitals,  foundries, 
mills,  gas-works,  private  residences,  and  hack  regula- 
tions. All  these  appear  to  do  very  well  in  their  way, 
but  to  be  singularly  devoid  of  interest  to  any  but  the 
most  business-hke  of  travellers.  The  population  of  the 
city  is  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  ;  and  this 
is  all  I  know  about  San  Francisco,  considered  from  a 
statistical  point  of  view.  The  hotels,  I  might  add,  have 
been  so  much  injured  by  being  called  the  best  in  the 
world  that  they  are  now  decidedly  poor.  There  is  in 
the  whole  city  but  one  hotel  on  the  European  plan,  — 
which  is  the  only  endurable  plan, — and  this  hotel  is 
not  more  than  a  third  or  fourth-rate  house. 

There  are  two  things  to  do  in  San  Francisco  (besides 
going  to  the  Chinese  theatre).  One  is  to  drive  out  of 
the  city,  and  the  other  is  to  .sail  away  from  it.  If  you 
drive,  you  drive  out  to  the  Cliff  House,  to  breakfast  on 
the  sight  of  seals.  If  you  sail,  you  sail  around  the 
harbor,  and  feast  on  the  sight  of  most  picturesque 
islands.  Alcatraz,  Goat,  and  Angel  islands  are  all  for. 
tified  and  garrisoned.  If  you  are  fortunate  enough  to 
6 


8i 


BITS  OF  TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 


go  in  a  Government  steamer,  on  a  fort  reception  day, 
you  land  on  these  little  islands,  climb  up  their  winding 
paths  to  the  sound  of  band  playing,  and  are  welcomed 
^to  sunny  piazzas  and  blooming  gardens,  with  that  ready 
cordiality  of  which  army  people  know  the  secret.  The 
islands  are  cliff-like ;  and  the  paths  wind  up  steep 
grades,  coming  out  on  the  plateau  above.  You  see  an 
effect  which  is  picture-like.  The  green  sward  seems  to 
meet  the  blue  sea-line  ;  piles  of  cannon-balls  glisten  on 
corners  ;  the  officers'  cottages  are  surrounded  by  gar- 
dens :  the  broad  piazzas  are  shady  with  roses ;  the 
soldiers'  quarters  are  in  straight  lines  or  hollow  squares  ; 
the  sentinel  paces  up  and  down,  without  looking  at  you  ; 
the  brass  instruments  shine  and  flash  in  the  sun,  at  the 
further  end  of  the  square  ;  and  the  sky  and  the  bay 
seem  dancing  to  the  same  measure,  above  and  around. 
It  is  hard  to  believe  that  the  scene  is  any  thing  more 
than  a  pleasure  spectacle,  for  a  summer  delight.  On 
one  of  the  islands,  —  Alcatraz,  I  think,  —  the  road  up  to 
the  quarters  is  so  steep  that  an  officer  has  invented  a 
most  marvellous  little  vehicle,  in  which  guests  are  hoisted 
to  the  commander's  door.  It  is  black;  it  swings  low, 
between  two  huge  wheels  ;  it  has  two  seats,  facing  each 
other ;  it  is  drawn  by  a  stout,  short-legged  horse,  who 
looks  as  it  he  had  been  imported  out  of  the  Liverpool 
dray  service.  The  vehicle  looks  like  nothing  ever  seen 
on  wheels  elsewhere.  I  can  think  of  nothing  to  which 
to  compare  it  except  to  two  coal-scuttles  joined  together, 
one  mouth  making  the  front,  one  mouth  making  the 
back,  and  the  rounded  sides  nearly  straightened  and 
overlapping  each  other. 

The  morning  and  the  noon  and  the  early  afternoon 
all  seem  one  on  tlie  bright,  rainless  skies  which  spread 
'^ver  San  Francisco's  matchless  bay.  It  will  be  four 
o'clock  before  you  get  back  to  the  city  from  this 
sail  around  the  harbor ;  but  you  will  find  it  hard  to 
believe  it. 

The  drive  to  the  Cliff  House  must  be  taken  early  in 
the  day,  —  the  earlier  the  better  ;  for  you  must  be  safely 


SAJV  FRANCISCO.  S3 

back  again,  under  shelter  of  the  city  walls,  before  eleven 
o'clock,  when  the  winds  rise  and  the  sands  begin  to 
blow  about.  To  be  anywhere  on  the  outskirts,  suburbs, 
or  near  neighborhood  of  San  Francisco  after  this  hour 
is  like  being  out  when  deserts  play  at  "  Puss,  puss  in 
the  corner."  Any  thing  like  the  whirling  sand-banks 
which  are  tossed  up  and  around  and  sent  back  and 
forth  in  these  daily  gales  cannot  be  imagined  till  one 
has  seen  it.  Neither  can  the  beauty  of  a  sand-drift  be 
imagined  till  you  have  seen  one  which  has  that  very 
minute  been  piled  up,  and  which  will  not  lie  where  it  is 
more  than  one  minute  longer.  No  snow-drift  can  be 
loveher.  Of  an  exquisite  pale  tint,  —  too  yellow  to  be 
brown,  too  brown  to  be  yellow,  and  too  white  to  be 
either  ;  too  soft  to  glisten,  too  bright  not  to  shine  ; 
mottled,  dimpled,  shadowed,  and  shaded  ;  Hned,  graven, 
as  it  were,  from  bottom  to  top  with  the  finest,  closest, 
rippling  curves,  marking  each  instant's  new  level  and 
sweep,  as  water-Hnes  write  on  beaches.  There  it  lies  — 
in  a  corner  of  an  open  street,  it  may  be,  or  even  across 
your  road.  Look  quick  !  Already  the  fine  crest  un- 
dulates;  the  base-line  alters.  In  a  minute  more  it  will 
be  a  cloud  of  torturing  dust,  which  will  cover,  suffocate, 
madden  you,  as  it  whirls  away  miles  to  east  or  west,  to 
nestle  again  for  another  minute  in  some  other  hollow  or 
corner. 

The  Cliff  House  stands  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
Pacific  Ocean.  From  the  westward  piazza  you  look  not 
only  off;  you  look  down  on  the  water.  The  cliffs  are 
not  high  ;  but  they  are  bold  and  rocky,  and  stretch  off 
northward  to  the  Golden  Gate.  To  the  south,  miles 
long,  lies  the  placid  beach.  The  low,  quiet  swell,  the 
day  we  were  there,  scarce  seemed  enough  to  bring  the 
tiniest  shell.  Buried  deep  ia  the  sand  lay  the  wreck  of 
a  brig,  the  prow  pointed  upward,  as  if  still  some  pur- 
pose struggled  in  its  poor,  wrecked  heart.  The  slow, 
incoming  tide  lapped  and  bathed  it,  washing,  even  while 
we  looked,  fresh  sand  into  the  seams  and  higher  up 
around  the  keel.     But  out  a  few  rods  from  the  shore 


84  BITS  OF   TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

were  navigators  whose  fates  and  freaks  soon  diverted 
and  absorbed  our  attention. 

It  is  so  much  the  fashion  to  be  tender,  not  to  say 
sentimental,  over  the  seals  of  the  Cliff  House  rocks 
that  I  was  disappointed  not  to  find  myself  falling  into 
that  line  as  I  looked  at  them.  But  the  longer  I  looked 
the  less  I  felt  like  it. 

It  is,  of  course,  a  sight  which  ought  to  profoundly 
touch  the  human  heart,  to  see  a  colony  of  anything  that 
lives  left  unmolested,  unharmed  of  men  ;  and  it,  per- 
haps, adds  to  the  picturesqueness  and  interest  of  the 
Chff  House  situation  to  have  these  licensed  warblers 
disporting  themselves,  safe  and  shiny,  on  the  rocks. 
But  when  it  comes  to  the  seals  themselves,  I  make  bold 
to  declare  that,  if  there  be  in  the  whole  animal  kingdom 
any  creature  of  size  and  sound  less  adapted  than  a  seal 
for  a  public  pet,  to  adorn  public  grounds, —  I  mean 
waters,  —  I  do  not  know  such  creature's  name.  Shape- 
less, boneless,  limbless,  and  featureless  ;  neither  fish 
nor  flesh  ;  of  the  color  and  consistency  of  India-rubber 
diluted  with  mucilage  ;  slipping,  cHnging,  sticking,  Hke 
gigantic  leeches  ;  flapping,  walloping  with  unapproach- 
able clumsiness  ;  lying  still,  lazy,  inert,  asleep,  appar- 
ently, till  they  are  baked  browner  and  hotter  than  they 
like,  then  plunging  off  the  rocks,  turning  once  over  in 
the  water,  to  wet  themselves  enough  to  bear  more  bak- 
ing ;  and  all  the  while  making  a  noise  too  hideous  to 
be  described,  —  a  mixture  of  bray  and  squeal  and  snuflf 
and  snort,  —  old  ones,  young  ones,  big  ones,  little  ones, 
mascuhne,  feminine,  and,  for  aught  1  know,  neuter,  by 
dozens,  by  scores,  —  was  there  ever  any  thing  droller  in 
the  way  of  a  philanthropy,  if  it  be  a  philanthropy,  or  in 
the  way  of  a  public  amusement,  if  it  be  an  amusement, 
than  this  ?  Let  them  be  sold,  and  their  skins  given  to 
the  poor;  and  let  peace  and  quiet  reign  along  that 
delicious  beach  and  on  those  grand  old  rocks. 

Going  back  to  the  city,  you  drive  for  two  or  three 
miles  on  the  beach,  still  water  on  your  right  and  sand- 
hills,   covered    thick   with   blue   and    yellow    and   red 


SAN  FRANCISCO.  85 

flowers,  on  your  left.  Surely,  never  an  ocean  met  mor^ 
gracious  welcome.  Many  of  the  flowers  seem  to  be  of 
the  cactus  species  ;  but  they  intertwine  and  mat  their 
tangles  so  as  to  make  great  spaces  of  solid  color.  Then 
you  take  a  road  turning  sharply  away  from  the  sea^ 
eastward.  It  is  hard  and  bright  red.  It  winds  at  first 
among  green  marshes,  in  which  are  here  and  there 
tiny  blue  lakes  ;  then  it  ascends  and  winds  among  more 
sand-hills,  still  covered  with  flowers  ;  then  higher  still, 
and  out  on  broader  opens,  where  the  blue  lupine  and 
the  yellow  eschscholtzia  grow  literally  by  fields  full ; 
and  then,  rounding  a  high  hill,  it  comes  out  on  a 
plateau,  from  which  the  whole  city  of  San  Francisco, 
with  the  bay  beyond  and  the  high  mountains  beyond 
the  bay,  lies  full  in  sight.  This  is  the  view  which  shows 
San"^ Francisco  at  its  best  and  reveals,  also,  how  much 
^^tter  that  best  ought  to  have  been  made. 

I  said  there  were  but  three  things  to  do  in  San 
Francisco.  There  are  four.  And  the  fourth  is  to  go 
and  see  Mr.  Muybridge's  photographs. 

The  scenery  of  California  is  known  to  Eastern  people 
clTietiy  ThTouglT"  the  big  but  inartistic  pictures  ot  Wat- 
kins.  When  it  is  knmvn  through  the  pictures  which 
Mr.  Muybridge  is  now  engaged  in  taking,  it  will  be  seen 
in  its  true  beauty  and  true  proportions.  Every  thing 
depends  on  stand-point  ;  very  few  photographs  of  land- 
scapes really  render  them.  Of  two  photographs,  both 
taking  in  precisely  the  same  objects  and  both  photo- 
graphing them  with  accuracy,  one  may  be  good  and 
the  other  worthless,  to  all  intents  and  purposes.  No 
man  can  so  take  a  photograph  of  a  landscape  as  to 
render  and  convey  the  whole  truth  of  it,  unless  he  is  an 
artist  by  nature,  and  would  know  how  to  choose  the 
point  from  which  that  landscape  ought  to  be  painted. 
Mr.  Muybridge  is  an  artist  by  nature.  His  photographs 
have  composition.  There  are  some  of  them  of  which  it 
is  difficult  to  believe  that  they  are  not  taken  from  paint- 
ings, —  such  unity,  such  effect,  such  vitality  do  they 
possess,  in  comparison  with   the  average  photograph, 


86  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

which  has  been  made,  hap-hazard,  to  cover  so  man^ 
square  feet  and  take  in  all  that  happened  to  be  there. 
Mr.  Muybrido^e's  pictures  have  another  peculiarity, 
which  of  itself  would  mark  them  superior  to  others. 
The  skies  are  always  most  exquisitely  rendered.  His 
cloud  photographs  alone  fill  a  volume  ;  and  many  of 
them  remind  one  vividly  of  Turner's  studies  of  skies. 
The  contrast  between  a  photographed  landscape,  with 
a  true  sky  added,  and  one  with  the  usual  ghastly,  life- 
less, palhd,  stippled  sky  is  something  which  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  overstate. 

Mr.  Muybridge  has  a  series  of  eight  pictures  illustra- 
tive of  the  California  vintage,  all  of  which  are  exquisitely 
beautiful,  and  any  one  of  which,  painted  in  true  color 
simply  from  the  photograph  as  it  stands,  would  seem  to  be 
a  picture  from  a  master's  hand.  One  of  the  first  pictures 
in  the  series,  representing  the  first  breaking  of  the  soil 
for  the  vineyard,  is  as  perfect  a  Millet  as  could  be  im- 
agined. The  soft  tender  distance,  outhned  by  low 
mountain  ranges  ;  a  winding  road,  losing  itself  in  a 
wood  ;  a  bare  and  stricken  tree  on  the  right  of  the  fore- 
ground ;  and  in  the  centre  a  solitary  man,  ploughing  the 
ground.  Next  comes  the  same  scene,  with  the  young 
vines  just  starting.  The  owner  is  sitting  on  a  bank  in 
the  foreground,  looking  off  dreamily  over  his  vineyard. 
Then  there  are  two  pictures  representing  the  cutting  of 
the  grapes  and  the  piling  of  them  into  the  baskets  and 
the  wagons.  The  grouping  of  the  vintagers  in  these  is 
exquisite.  Then  there  is  a  picture  of  the  storehouses  and 
the  ranges  of  casks ;  all  so  judiciously  selected  and 
placed  that  it  might  be  a  photograph  from  some  old 
painting  of  still  life  in  Meran.  The  last  picture  of  all  is 
of  the  corking  the  bottles.  Only  a  group  of  workmen, 
under  an  open  shed,  corking  wine-bottles  ;  but  every 
accessory  is  so  artistically  thrown  in  that  the  whole 
scene  reminds  one  of  Teniers. 

I  am  not  sure,  after  all,  that  there  is  any  thing  so  good 
to  do  in  San  Francisco  as  to  spend  a  forenoon  in  Mr. 
Muybridge's  little  upper  chamber,  looking  ovtT  these 
marvellous  pictures. 


THE    WAY  TO  AH-WAH-NE.  87 


THE  WAY  TO   AH-WAH-NE. 

AH-WAH-NE  !  Does  not  the  name  vindicate  itselt 
at  first  si^ht  and  sound  ?  Shall  we  ever  forgive 
the  Dr.  Bunnell,  who,  not  content  with  volunteer  duty 
in  kilHng  off  Indians  in  the  great  Merced  River  Valley, 
must  needs  name  it  the  Yo-sem-i-te,  and  who  adds  to 
his  account  of  his  fighting  campaigns  the  following 
naive  paragraph  ? 

"  It  is  acknowledged  that  Ah-wah-ne  is  the  old  Indian 
name  for  the  valley,  and  that  Ah-wah-ne-chee  is  the 
name  of  the  original  occupants  ;  but,  as  this  was  discov- 
ered by  the  writer  long  after  he  had  named  the  valley, 
and  as  it  was  the  wish  of  every  volunteer  with  whom  he 
conversed  that  the  name  Yo-semite  be  retained,  he  said 
very  little  about  it.  He  will  only  say,  in  conclusion, 
that  the  principal  facts  are  befc^e  the  public,  and  that  it 
is  for  them  to  decide  whether  they  will  retain  the  name 
Yo-semite  or  have  some  other." 

It  is  easy  to  do  and  impossible  to  undo  this  species 
of  mischief.  No  concerted  action  of  "  the  public,"  no 
legislation  of  repentant  authorities,  will  ever  give  back  to 
.he  valley  its  own  melodious  name  ;  but  I  think  its  true 
lovers  will  for  ever  call  it  Ah-wah-ne.  The  name  seems 
to  have  in  its  very  sound  the  same  subtle  blending  oi 
solemnity,  tenderness,  and  ineffable  joy  with  which  the 
valley's  atmosphere  is  filled.  Ahwahne  !  Blessed 
Ahwahne  ! 

I  look  back  with  remorse  upon  the  days  we  spent  in 
resolving  to  go.  Philistines  poured  warnings  into  our 
ears.  I  shudder  to  think  how  nearly  they  attained  theil 
end.     At  the   very   last,  it   was   only  lack   of  courage 


88  BITS  OF   TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

which  drove  us  on  ;  it  seemed  easier  to  endure  any 
thing  than  to  confess  that  we  had  been  afraid.  O  Phil- 
istines who  warned,  be  warned  in  turn.  Pray  that  ye 
never  meet  us  again. 

Early  on  a  Monday,  the  17th  of  June,  we  set  out. 
The  Oaklands  ferry-boat  was  crowded.  Groups  of  peo- 
ple, evidently  bound  on  the  long  overland  journey  ;  and 
other  groups  bound,  like  ourselves,  for  the  Valley. 
Everybody  was  discussing  routes  with  everybody  else. 
Each  was  sure  that  he  was  going  the  only  good  way. 
We  were  happiest,  not  being  committed  to  any  fixed 
programme,  and  having  left  it  to  be  decided  on  the  road 
whether  we  should  go  first  to  the  Big  Trees  or  to  the 
Valley.  Behind  us  sat  a  woman  whose  lead  we  almost 
resolved  to  follow,  for  the  sake  of  seeing  the  effect  her 
toilet  would  produce  on  landscapes.  She  wore  a  fiery 
scarlet  cashmere  gown,  the  overskirt  profusely  trimmed 
with  black  lace  and  scarlet  satin,  the  underskirt  trimmed 
high  with  the  same  scarlet  satin.  A  black  lace  jacket, 
a  point-lace  collar  and  sleeves,  and  a  costly  gold  chain. 
A  black  velvet  hat,  with  a  huge  white  pearl  buckle  and 
ostrich  plume,  completed  this  extraordinary  costume. 
Gloves  were  omitted.  The  woman  had  beauty  of  a 
strong,  coarse  type.  She  laughed  loud  and  showed 
white  teeth.  She  also  spat  in  the  aisle  or  from  the 
window,  like  a  man.  Such  sights  as  this  are  by  no 
means  uncommon  in  California.  One  never  wearies  of 
watching  or  ceases  to  wonder  at  the  clothes  and  the 
bearing  of  the  women.  Just  behind  this  woman  sat 
another,  wearing  an  embroidered  white  pique  and  a  fur 
collar.  At  one  of  the  first  stations  entered  a  third, 
dressed  in  a  long,  trailing  black  silk,  bordered  around  the 
bottom  with  broad  black  velvet.  Her  hands  and  arms 
were  bare,  and  she  carried  a  coarse  sacking  bag,  half 
as  big  as  herself,  tied  up  at  the  mouth  with  a  dirty  rope. 

Agents  for  hotels  in  Stockton,  and  for  different  routes 
to  the  Yosemite,  went  up  and  down  in  the  cars.  It  was 
pitiful  to  see  pusillanimous  and  will-less  persons  swaying 
like  reeds  in  the  breeze  of  their  noisy  statements 


THE    WAY  TO  AH-WAH~NE.  89 

The  great  San  Joaquin  wheat  valley  stretched  away, 
on  each  side  of  the  railway  track,  further  than  we  could 
look.  Except  for  the  oaks  rising  out  of  the  wheat,  it 
might  have  been  taken,  under  the  gently  stirring  wind, 
for  a  sunht  sea. 

Here  and  there  went  rolling  along  the  mysterious 
steam-threshers  ;  huge  red  wagon-like  things,  with  tow- 
ers and  fans  and  a  sharp  clatter,  doing  by  a  single  puff 
of  steam  the  work  of  many  men's  arms,  finishing  in  a  sin- 
gle hour  the  work  of  many  days.  Here  and  there,  also, 
we  saw  a  narrow  road  through  the  wheat.  The  crowded, 
slender,  waving  columns  walled  it  so  high  that  a  man  on 
horseback  looked  like  a  man  riding  in  a  forest,  and  could 
not  see  over  the  tops  of  the  grain. 

A  bad,  a  very  bad  dinner  at  a  town  named  Peters ; 
a  change  of  cars  at  Stockton,  —  from  the  Central  Pa- 
cific to  the  Copperopolis  Railroad  ;  a  change  from  cars 
to  stage  at  Burnet ;  and,  before  the  middle  of  the  after- 
noon, we  had  really  set  our  faces  toward  Ah-wah-ne. 
The  road  lay  at  first  through  a  fertile  country,  great 
parks,  shaded  by  oaks,  and  sown  with  wheat ;  then 
through  barer  and  less  beautiful  lands,  stony  and  un- 
cultivated, but  picturesque  and  almost  weird  from  the 
cropping  out  of  sharp,  vertical  slate  ledges,  in  all  direc- 
tions ;  then  into  still  barer  and  stonier  tracts  of  old 
mining-fields.  These  are  dismal  beyond  description. 
The  earth  has  been  torn  up  with  pick-axes,  and  gullied 
by  forced  streams  ;  the  rocks  have  been  blasted  and 
quarried  and  piled  in  confusion  ;  no  green  thing  grows 
for  acres  ;  the  dull  yellow  of  the  earth  and  the  black 
and  white  and  gray  of  the  heaped  stones  give  a  coloring 
like  that  of  volcanic  ruins  ;  and  the  shapes  into  which 
many  of  the  softer  stones  have  been  worn  by  the  action 
of  water  are  so  like  the  shapes  of  bones  that  it  adds 
another  element  of  horror  to  the  picture.  Again  and 
again  we  saw  spots  which  looked  as  if  graveyards  full 
of  buried  monsters  had  been  broken  open,  and  the 
skeletons  strewn  about. 


90  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

We  were  to  sleep  at  Chinese  Camp.  The  name  was 
not  attractive :  and  the  town  looked  less  so  as  we  ap- 
proached it.  A  narrow,  huddled  street  of  low  and 
dingy  houses,  set  closely  together  as  a  city;  a  thick, 
hedge-like  row  of  dwarfed  locust-trees  stood  on  each 
side,  making  it  dark  and  damp ;  many  of  the  build- 
ings were  of  stone,  with  huge,  studded  iron  shutters  to 
both  doors  and  windows  of  the  first  story;  but  stone 
and  iron  were  alike  cobwebbed  and  dusty,  as  if  enemies 
had  long  since  ceased  to  attack.  At  the  door  of  the 
hotel,  a  surprise  awaited  us.  A  middle-aged  man, 
with  a  finely  cut,  sensitive  face,  and  the  bearing  and 
the  speech  of  a  gentleman,  came  forward  to  receive  us. 
It  was  the  landlord,  —  the  Count  Solinsky,  a  Polish  ex- 
ile. His  story  is  only  the  story  of  thousands  of  the 
pioneers  of  '49.  Glowing  hopes,  bitter  disappoint- 
ments, experiment  after  experiment,  failure  after  fail- 
ure ;  at  last,  the  keeper  of  a  little  tavern  and  the  agent 
of  an  express  company,  he  had  settled  down,  no  longer 
looking  for  fortune  and  success.  There  was  something 
very  pathetic  in  the  quiet  dignity  with  which  he  filled 
the  uncongenial  place,  accepted  the  inevitable  burden. 
His  little  daughter,  twelve  years  old,  had  on  her  beauti- 
ful face  a  wistful  look,  —  the  stamp  of  unconscious  ex- 
ile. "  What  will  be  the  child's  fate  !  "  I  said  to  myself, 
as  I  watched  her  arranging  with  idle,  lingering  fingers  a 
few  bright,  wild  flowers  in  an  old  pitcher.  Who  knows  "i 
There  is  promise  of  great  beauty  in  her  face  and  figure. 
Not  the  least  of  the  exiled  Count's  griefs  must  be  the 
anticipation  of  her  future,  in  this  wild,  rough  land. 
Perhaps  she  may  yet  live  to  be  the  landlady  of  the  inn, 
and  so  perpetuate  the  cleanliness  and  good  service 
which  to-day  make  it  memorable  in  the  journey  to 
Ah-wah-ne.  "  I  have  not  much  I  can  give,"  said  the 
Count,  with  the  fine  instinct  of  hospitality ;  but,  if  all  come 
clean  on,  I  know  that  is  the  most.  I  know  what  is  most 
when  one  will  travel." 

It  was  only  six  o'clock,  when  we  set  out,  the  next 
morning.     White  mists  were  curling  up  from  all  the  hoi* 


THE   WAY  TO   AH-WAH-NR.  91 

lows  in  the  hills,  and  the  air  was  frosty :  but,  in  an  hour, 
the  hot  sun  had  driven  the  mists  away  ;  and  the  marvel- 
lous, cloudless  blue  of  the  rainless  sky  stretched  again 
above  us.  This  is  a  perpetual  wonder  to  the  traveller 
in  California  in  spring,  —  day  after  day  of  such  radiant 
weather :  it  seems  like  living  on  a  fairy  planet,  where 
the  atmosphere  is  made  of  sunshine,  and  rain  is  im- 
possible. 

Old  mining-fields  still  lay  along  our  road,  dismal  and 
ghastly,  —  sluices  and  gulches  and  pits  and  shelving 
banks,  toppling  masses  of  excavated  rock,  and  piles  of 
gravel  and  stones.  Here  and  there  a  vineyard  or  fruit 
orchard,  in  some  hollow  or  on  some  hillside,  gave  us  a 
keen  thrill  of  dehght  by  its  glistening  green,  and  its  sug- 
gestion of  something  to  eat  or  drink  besides  the  scorch- 
ing gold.  We  passed  a  settlement  of  Digger  Indians,  too 
loathsome  to  be  looked  at.  We  crossed  a  swift  river  in 
a  creaking  rope  ferry.  We  chmbed  up  the  side  of  a 
canyon,  two  thousand  feet  deep,  with  a  foaming  river  at 
bottom.     And  then  we  came  to  Garrote  No.  i. 

"  Why  No.  I  .?  " 

"Because  there  is  Garrote  No.  2,  three  miles  further 
along."  It  would  seem  as  if  one  so  hideous  name  might 
suffice  to  a  district. 

"  And  why  do  we  not  hurry  on  ?  "  added  we,  being 
informed  that  we  were  to  wait  in  Garrote  No.  i  for 
two  hours  and  a  half.  Replies  were  unsatisfactory. 
But  only  too  well  did  we  answer  the  question  for  our- 
selves at  bedtime.  Then  we  discovered  that  the  whole 
programme  of  the  route  had  been  arranged  by  the 
stage  company,  with  a  view  to  the  single  end  of  com- 
peUing  travellers  to  sleep  one  more  night  on  the  way. 
(Here  let  me  forewarn  all  persons  going  by  the  Big  Oak 
Flat  route  to  the  Yosemite,  that  there  is  not  the  slightest 
need  of  spending  more  than  one  night  between  Bur- 
net and  Gentry's,  —  Gentry's  being  the  house  at  the 
entrance  of  the  Valley.  They  should  insist  on  spend- 
ing the  second  night  at  Gentry's.) 

However,  ill  winds  blow  good.     This  one  blew  to  us 


92  BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

the  s^ood  of  a  sight  of  the  hydraulic  mining,  such  as  we 
could  not  easily  have  seen  elsewhere.  The  proptietor 
of  the  Treadwell  Mine  chanced  to  be  in  town,  and,  hear- 
ing of  our  desire  to  see  the  mine,  took  us  to  it.  It  lay, 
not  far  off  our  road,  eight  miles  ahead.  How  we  dashed 
over  the  ground,  in  a  light  buggy,  behind  two  fast  horses  \ 
It  seemed  like  flying  or  ballooning,  after  our  jolting  in 
the  heavy  stage.  It  was  not  much  more  than  a  sem- 
blance of  a  road  into  which  we  turned  off  from  the  high- 
way, at  end  of  the  eight  miles.  It  led  through  fields, 
across  morasses,  up  sharp,  stonyhillsides,  through  gaps 
in  fences.  A  mile  from  the  public  road,  we  passed  a 
small  cabin,  covered  with  white  roses.  Only  the  chim- 
ney and  one  corner  of  the  ridgepole  peeped  out.  We 
could  not  even  see  the  windows.  No  one  had  lived  in 
it  for  a  year ;  and,  in  that  short  time,  the  roses  had 
buried  it.  The  well,  also,  was  covered  in  the  same  way 
with  pink  roses.  It  was  strange  to  see  the  look  of  deso- 
lation which  even  roses  could  have,  left  all  alone. 

Just  beyond  the  rose-buried  cabin,  we  came  suddenly 
in  sight  ot  the  mine.  It  looked  like  an  acre  or  two  of 
sand-quarry,  or  more  like  dozens  of  great,  yellow  clay 
cellars,  with  their  partition-walls  broken  down  irregu- 
larly, in  places.  It  was  spanned  by  a  shining  stream  of 
water,  arching  high  in  the  air,  and  making  a  noise  like  a 
small  waterfall.  This  stream  came  from  a  huge,  black 
nozzle  on  the  right  side  of  the  excavation,  and  played 
with  its  full  force,  or  like  a  jet  from  a  fire-engine,  into 
the  cliff-like  side  of  the  opposite  bank.  It  was  a  part 
of  the  Tuolomne  River ;  and  it  had  journeyed  miles 
and  miles  through  pipes  to  come  to  do  this  work.  As 
it  leaped  through  the  air,  it  was  white  and  pure,  and 
flashed  in  the  sun.  After  breaking  against  the  yellow 
clay-bank,  it  fell  turbid  and  thick,  in  masses  of  gamboge- 
colored  foam,  into  narrow  wooden  sluices.  These  led 
off,  slanting,  for  many  rods  across  the  yellow  cellars, 
down  a  narrow  wooded  valley,  and  then  through  a  sharp 
ravine,  into  the  river  again.  At  intervals  in  these  sluices 
were   set  boxes,   with   wired   sides   and  pebbled  bot- 


THE    WAY  TO   AH-WAH-NE.  93 

toms.  Into  these  is  put  that  unerring  constable,  quick- 
silver, which  arrests,  by  its  mastic  power,  every  grain  of 
the  precious  gold.  As  we  walked  along  on  the  rough 
bank,  by  side  of  the  sluices,  the  rattle  and  rumble  of 
the  pebbles  under  the  torrent  seemed  a  sort  of  weird, 
defiant  chorus. 

"  Over  and  over  and  over, 

And  give  up  the  gold. 

The  gold,  the  gold  ; 
And  over  and  over  and  over, 
Untold,  untold,  untold  !  "  — 

I  fancied  it  saying.  There  certainly  was,  in  the  sound 
made  by  the  rolling  over  of  the  pebbles  on  the  wooden 
surfaces,  a  strange  predominance  of  that  vowel-sound 
of  O. 

High  up  on  the  bank,  opposite  the  spot  upon  which 
the  stream  played,  was  the  superintendent's  house.  It 
was  only  a  one-storied  shanty,  papered  with  pictorial 
newspapers,  and  floored  with  planed  pine  ;  but  ter- 
races, witli  little  patches  of  garden,  led  up  to  it  ;  and 
the  whole  scene,  from  the  verandah,  was  one  which 
might  well  have  contented  an  artist  to  stay  there  for  days. 
The  high,  yellow  cliff  opposite,  with  evergreen  trees 
on  top  ;  the  stirring  arch  of  water,  perpetually  bridging 
the  space  between  and  undermining  the  clitt,  —  some- 
times a  large  part  of  the  front  edge  falling  at  once, 
like  an  avalanche  ;  the  foaming  streams  down  the 
sluices  ;  the  dark  ravine  :  the  sunny  sky  ;  the  inex- 
pressible look  of  remoteness  and  loneliness  over  all;  the 
utter  silence,  save  for  the  thud  of  the  water  against 
the  bank,  and  the  rumble  of  the  pebbly  torrents  over 
the  wooden  pavements, — altogether,  it  was  a  vivid 
picture,   not  to  be  forgotten. 

The  sweet  face  of  the  superintendent's  wife  was  also 
not  to  be  forgotten, — the  sharp-cut,  kcen-visioned,  sen- 
Bitive-nerved  New  England  face,  with  the  repressed 
wistfulness  born  of  long,  solitary  days  in  lonely  places. 
When  we  said,  in  the  flush  of  our  enthusiastic  delighi 


94  BITS   OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

at  the  picturesqueness  of  the  scene,  and  at  the  exqui- 
site neatness  and  order  of  the  littie  home  :  — 

"OMrs. !  would  you  not  take  us  to  board?' 

she  sighed,  as  she  answered  :  — 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  you'd  do  with  yourselves, 
after  you  got  here.  It's  very  pretty  to  look  at  once  ; 
but  it's  terrible  si  ill  here,  all  but  that  water.  An'  some- 
times I  get  listenin'  to  that  till  it  seems  to  me  it  sounds 
louder  and  louder  every  minute,  till  it's  as  loud  as 
thunder." 

What  genius  could  have  invented  a  better  analysis  r^" 
the  effect  produced  upon  the  mind  by  dwelling  on  * 
single  sensation,  under  such  circumstances  ? 

We  found  the  stage  waiting  for  us  at  the  point  wher^ 
we  had  left  the  public  road.  The  passengers'  impa 
tience  at  our  short  delay  had  been  assuaged  by  the 
pleasure  of  killing  a  large  rattlesnake,  whose  rattles 
were  triumphantly  displayed  to  us,  in  token  of  what  we 
had  missed. 

Now  we  began  to  climb  and  to  enter  upon  forests, — 
pines  and  firs  and  cedars.  It  seemed  as  if  the  whole 
world  had  become  forest,  we  could  see  off  so  far  through 
the  vistas  between  the  tall,  straight,  branchless  trunks. 
The  great  sugar-pines  were  from  one  hundred  to  two 
hundred  and  twenty  feet  high,  and  their  lowest  branches 
were  sixty  to  eighty  feet  from  the  ground.  The  cedars 
and  firs  and  yellow  pines  were  not  much  shorter.  The 
grandeur  of  these  innumerable  colonnades  cannot  be 
conceived.  It  can  hardly  be  realized,  even  while  they 
are  majestically  opening,  receding,  closing,  in  your  very 
sight.  Sometimes  a  sunbeam  will  strike  on  a  point  so 
many  rods  away,  down  one  of  these  dark  aisles,  that  it  is 
impossible  to  believe  it  sunhght  at  all.  Sometimes, 
through  a  break  in  the  tree-tops,  will  gleam  snowy  peaks 
of  Sierras,  hundreds  of  miles  away ;  but  the  path  to 
their  summits  will  seem  to  lead  straight  through  these 
columns  of  vivid  green.  Perspective  becomes  trans- 
figuration, miracle  when  it  deals  with  such  distance, 
such   color,   and   such   giant  size.     It  would  not  hava 


THE    WAY  TO   AH-WAH-NE.  95 

astonished  me  at  any  moment,  as  I  grazed  reverently 
out  into  these  measureless  cloisters,  to  have  seen  beings 
of  Titanic  stature  moving  slowly  along,  chanting  ser- 
vice and  swinging  incense  in  some  supernatural  wor- 
ship. 

The  transition  from  such  grandeur,  such  delight  as 
this  to  the  grovelling  misery  of  a  night  at  Hogdin's 
(^g  soft,  but  not  by  rights)  cannot  be  described.  Ex- 
cept for  a  sense  of  duty  to  posterity,  one  ought  never  to 
allude  to  such  places  as  Hogdin's,  — that  is,  if  there  are 
any  such  places  as  Hogdin's,  which  I  question.  It  was 
only  half-past  5  o'clock  when  we  arrived.  The  two 
shanties  of  which  Hogdin's  consists  were  already  filled. 
Unhappy  men  and  women,  sitting  on  log  steps,  with 
their  knees  drawn  up,  glared  at  us  savagely,  as  brigands 
might.  They  were  wretched  enough  before.  Now 
we  had  come,  what  would  be  done  1  How  many  to  a 
room  would  it  make  .'*  And  wherewithal  were  we  to  be 
fed.? 

Only  fifteen  miles  further  was  the  comfortable  little 
hotel  kept  by  Mr.  Gentry,  at  the  entrance  of  the  Valley. 
Would  entreaties,  would  bribes,  induce  the  driver  to 
take  us  on  ?  No.  Entreaties  and  bribes,  even  large 
bribes,  are  unavailing.  Mr.  Hogdin  has  purchased  an 
interest  in  the  stage  company,  and  no  stage-driver  dares 
carry  passengers  past  Mr.  Hogdin's  house. 

Three,  four,  five  in  a  room  ;  some  on  floors,  without 
even  a  blanket.  A  few  pampered  ones,  women,  with 
tin  pans  for  wash-bowls  and  one  towel  for  six  hands.: 
The  rest,  men,  with  one  tin  basin  in  an  open  shed,  and. 
if  they  had  any  towel  or  not  I  do  not  know.  That  was 
a  night  at  Hogdin's. 

Food  .?  Yes.  Junks  of  beef  floating  in  bowls  of  fat, 
junks  of  ham  ditto,  beans  ditto,  potatoes  as  hard  as  bul- 
lets, corn-bread  steaming  with  saleratus,  doughnuts 
ditto,  hot  biscuits  ditto  ;  the  whole  set  out  in  indescrib- 
able confusion  and  dirt,  in  a  narrow,  unventilated  room, 
dimly  Ht  by  two  reeking  kerosene  lamps.  Even  brave 
and  travelled  souls  could  not  help  being  appalled  at  the 


96  BITS  OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

situatioiL  Not  in  the  wildest  and  most  poverty-stricken 
little  town  in  Italy  could  such  discomfort  be  encountered. 
However,  nobody  dies  of  starvation  for  lack  of  one  sun- 
per  and  one  breakfast.  Anybody  can  lie  awake  in  a 
shed  all  of  one  night,  and  go  witiiout  washing  his  face 
one  morning;  and,  except  for  the  barefaced  imposition 
of  the  unnecessary  night  at  Hogdin's,  we  could  have 
laughed  heartily  at  it  the  next  day. 

There  was  something  uncommonly  droll  in  the  ener- 
getic promptness  and  loudness  with  which  the  landlady 
roused  all  her  guests  at  half-i)ast  four  in  the  morning. 

"  You  don't  suppose  we  were  asleep,  do  you  '^.  "  called 
out  somebody,  whose  sense  of  humor  had  not  been  en- 
tirely extinguished  by  hunger  and  no  bed. 

It  is  seven  miles  from  Hogdin's  to  the  highest  point 
on  the  road.  This  is  seven  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 
It  is  the  summit  of  the  ridge  which  separates  the  Merced 
River  from  the  Tuolomne.  The  Tuolomne  we  have 
seen  ;  it  is  behind  us  now.  The  Merced  is  in  the  valley 
we  seek.  Already  we  feel  a  sense  of  the  nearness  of 
grander  glories  than  we  have  seen.  Vast  spaces  open 
on  either  hand.  We  look  off  over  great  tracks  of  tree- 
tops  ;  huge  rocks  are  piled  up  around  us  in  wild,  almost 
terrible  confusion;  the  horizon  line  before  us,  and  to 
the  right  and  to  the  left  is  of  serrated,  glistening  snow- 
peaks.  The  Sierras  seem  closing  in  upon  us.  The 
road  descends  sharply  from  the  summit.  We  have 
almost  a  grateful  feeling  of  protection  in  plunging 
again  into  the  forests,  and  escaping  from  the  wide 
oudook  of  the  bleak,  stony  ridge.  Down  hill,  seven 
more  miles,  to  Gentry's.  The  road  is  steep,  zig-zag, 
rough  ;  the  horses  go  at  full  speed ;  the  three  hours 
have  seemed  like  but  one,  when  we  dash  up  in  the 
sunny  little  clearing  in  front  of  "  Gentry's."  Tall  pines 
wall  the  clearing  on  three  sides  ;  the  third  is  open. 
Looking  that  way,  we  see  blue  mountain  tops  and  in- 
finite distance.  Is  it  Ah-wah-ne  t  It  looks  as  the 
Ancaufthal,  in  the  .^"strian  Tyrol,  might  in  some  magic 
bummer  which  had  melted  orE  all  the  snow.     We  run 


THE    WAY   TO  AH-WAH-NE.  97 

to  the  furthermost  edge  of  the  precipitous  hill  and  bend 
out  eagerly  to  look  into  its  depths. 

But  it  is  not  Ah-wah-ne.  Ah-wah-ne  makes  no  such 
half  revelation  of  itself.  Ah-wah-ne  is  behind  and  be- 
low the  dark  sugar-pines  on  the  left ;  and  there  fastened 
to  the  posts,  sound  aleep,  stand  Hutchings's  mules, 
ready  to  carry  us  down  its  wall. 


gS  BITS   01^    TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 


THE   DESCENT    INTO    AH-WAH-NE. 

FALSTAFF'S  men  could  find  their  proper  mount  at 
Gentry's  when  the  saddle  train  comes  up  from 
Ah-wah-ne.  Ten,  twenty,  thirty,  horses,  mustangs, 
mules,  rusty  black,  din^y  white,  streaked  red  ;  un- 
groomcd.  unfed,  untrained  ;  harmless  only  because  they 
are  feeble  from  hunger;  sure  to  keep  on,  if  their 
strength  holds  out,  to  the  end  of  the  journey,  simply 
because  their  one  instinct  is  to  escape  somewhere; 
saddled  with  saddles  of  all  possible  shapes,  sizes,  colors, 
and  dilajjidation  ;  bridled  with  halters,  likely  enough,  or 
with  clumsy  Mexican  bits,  big  enough  to  curb  a  masto- 
don, or  not  bridled  at  all  if  they  are  to  carry  luggage; 
ga4ant-ribbed,  swollen-jointed,  knock-kneed,  piteous-eyed 
beasts,  —  surely,  nobody  ever  saw  out  of  John  Leech's 
pictures  so  sorry  horseflesh.  You  stand  on  the  piazza, 
at  Gentry's,  and  watch  the  procession  come  slowly  up. 
Nose  after  nose  conies  into  sight,  followed  by  reluctant, 
stumbling  fore-feet ;  so  slow  they  climb  it  seems  to  take 
a  good  while  before  you  see  the  whole  of  any  one  horse. 

They  stop  long  before  they  reach  the  piazza,  thinking 
that  their  riders" may  as  well  get  off  a  minute  or  two 
sooner.  The  guides  w^hack  their  haunches  and  push 
them  up  to  the  steps,  and  the  Ah-wah-ne  pilgrims  slip 
or  spring  from  their  saddles  with  sighs  of  relief. 

You,  who  were  longing  for  these  to  come  out,  that 
you  might  go  in,  look  on  with  dismay.  On  all  sides  you 
hear  ejaculations  from  the  people  waiting.  "  Fll  never 
gi  on  that  horse  ;  "  "  nor  on  that ;  "  "  that  poor  creature 
will  never  live  to  go  down  again."  Everybody  gazes  in- 
tently toward  the  crest  of  the  hill,  over  which  the  pa- 


THE  DESCENT  INTO    AH-WAH-NE.        99 

tbetic  file  is  still  coming.  Everybody  hopes  to  see  a  horse 
better  than  these.  But  there  is  not  a  pin's  choice  be- 
tween them,  when  they  are  all  there.  Wherever  tlieir 
riders  leave  them,  there  they  stand,  stock-still,  till  they 
are  pushed  or  drag<j;ed  away.  Heads  down,  tails  limp, 
le<;s  out,  abject,  pitiable  thin<rs, — you  feel  as  if  cnit-ltv 
personified  could  not  have  the  heart  to  lay  a  feather's 
weight  on  their  backs. 

With  the  timid  reverence  natural  in  the  mind  of  one 
going  toward  Ah-wah-ne  for  one  coming  from  it,  you 
apj)roach  the  newly  arrived  and  ask  concerning  these 
horses.  Your  pity  and  horror  deepen  when  you  are  told 
that  the  poor  creatures  are  never  {<t.i\,  never  sheltered. 
They  are  worked  all  day  without  food,  often  being  out 
from  six  in  the  morning  until  six  at  night,  carrying 
people  over  steep,  stony  trails  ;  then  they  are  turned 
loose  to  shift  for  themselves  in  the  meadows  all  night. 
I5y  four  or  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  guides  are 
out  scouring  the  meadows  to  drive  them  in  again.  And 
so  their  days  go  on.  There  was  but  one  alleviation  to 
this  narrative.  It  was  the  statement  that  every  morning 
a  good  many  horses  cannot  be  found.  They  trot  all 
night  to  find  fields  out  of  reach  of  their  tormentors,  or 
theyswimoff  to  little  islands  in  the  Merced  and  hide. 
Mr.  Hutchings  has  lost  seventy  horses  in  this  way  since 
last  year.     When  we  were  told  these  things,  we  said  :  — 

''Very  well.  The  horses  that  carry  us  down  the  wall 
of  Ah-wah-ne  shall  be  fed.  We  will  not  go  down  until 
afternoon,  and  they  shall  have  all  the  barley  they  can 
eat  between  now  and  then." 

Sol  White,  a  ruddy-faced  man,  whom  we  had  chosen 
for  our  guide  as  soon  as  we  saw  him  laugh,  assented  with 
a  comic  shrug  of  his  shoulders  to  this  Quixotic  humanity, 
and  led  oflf  the  astonished  horses  to  the  stable.  But 
another  guide  who  stood  by — a  tall,  thin  man,  whose 
deep-lined  face  looked  like  that  of  a  Scottish  Covenanter 
—  said,  half  sadly,  half  gruffly  :  — 

"  'Taint  any  kindness  to  'em.  The  sooner  they  die 
Ihe  better." 


lOO  BITS   OF   TRAVEL   AT  I  10 MB.. 

We  watched  the  rest  of  the  saddle-train  off,  —  the  fat 
women  on  the  httle  saddles,  and  the  tall  men  on  the 
short  mules,  and  the  eager  children  on  horses  that 
wouldn't  budge,  and  the  pack-mule  going  ahead,  under 
a  mountain  of  everybody's  valises.  Each  one  disap- 
peared down  the  steep  trail  so  suddenly  it  seemed  as  if 
he  had  pitched  down  headforemost;  the  last  view  of 
each  tail  and  pair  of  hind-legs  showing  them  in  the  air. 

Ah  !  the  comfort  of  that  five  hours'  rest  at  Gentry's. 
If  all  travellers  to  Ah-wah-ne  rested  thus  at  the 
entrance  of  the  Valley,  we  should  hear  less  of 
the  fatigues  of  the  journey.  After  three  hours  of  the 
severest  jolting  in  a  stage,  to  undertake  tliree  hours 
more  of  horseback  riding  is  a  serious  mistake  for  any 
but  the  strong.  The  bread  or  the  barley  of  our  charity 
to  the  poor  horses  came  back  to  us  tenfold,  and  that 
speedily. 

The  pleasant  little  sitting-room,  with  its  bright  carpet 
and  lace  curtains  and  melodeon  ;  the  bedrooms,  clean 
as  clean  could  be  and  with  two  beds  in  each  ;  the  neat 
dining-room  and  good  dinner  ;  the  log  cabin  for  a  linen 
closet ;  the  running  spring  water  ;  the  smiling  faces 
and  prompt  kindliness  of  the  landlord  and  his  wife, — 
what  a  marvel  it  was  to  find  all  these  in  this  new  clearing 
in  a  pine  forest  of  the  Sierra  Country,  seven  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea  ! 

And  better  than  the  barley  for  the  starved  horses, 
and  better  than  five  hours'  rest,  and  the  dinner,  and  the 
faces  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kenny,  was  it  that  we  entered 
Ah-wah-ne  in  the  late  afternoon,  when  the  impertinent 
noon  lights  had  passed  and  shadows  went  before  us  and 
journeyed  by  our  side. 

We  set  out  at  three  o'clock.  Our  first  sensations  were 
not  agreeable.  We  had  seen  how  steep  it  looked  when 
horse  and  rider  disappeared  over  that  hill-crest.  It  felt 
steeper.  To  an  unaccustomed  rider  it  is  not  pleasant 
to  sit  on  a  horse  whose  heels  are  much  higher  than  his 
head.  One's  first  impulse  is  to  clutch,  to  brace,  to 
cling,  and  to  guide  the  horse.     But  there  is  neither  com- 


1  'HE  DESCENT  INI  V  A  H-  WA  H-NE.        1 0 1 

fort  nor  safety  till  you  leave  off  doinor  so.  With  a  per- 
fectly loose  rein  and  every  muscle  relaxed,  sitting  as 
you  would  sit  in  a  rocking-chair,  leaning  back  when  the 
horse  rocks  down,  leaning  forward  when  he  rocks  up, 
and  forgetting  him  altogether,  riding  down  precipices  is 
as  comfortai)le  and  safe  as  riding  on  a  turnpike.  I  do 
not  say  that  it  is  altogether  easy  in  the  outset  to  follow 
these  simple  directions.  But,  if  you  are  wise,  it  soon 
becomes  so,  and  you  look  with  impatient  pity  on  the 
obstinacy  of  women  who  persist  in  grasping  pommels, 
and  sitting  so  stark  stiff  that  it  seems  as  if  a  sudden 
lurch  of  the  horse  must  inevitably  send  them  off,  before 
or  behind. 

The  first  two  miles  and  a  half  of  the  path  down  the 
wall  of  Ah-wah-ne  are  steep,  —  so  steep  that  it  is  best 
not  to  try  to  say  how  steep.  It  is  a  narrow  path,  zig- 
zagging 'down  on  ledges,  among  bowlders,  through 
thickets.  It  is  dusty  and  stony  ;  it  comes  out  suddenly 
on  opens,  from  which  you  look  over  and  down  thousands, 
yes,  thousands  of  feet  ;  it  plunges  into  tangles  of  trees, 
where  a  rider  must  lay  his  head  on  the  horse's  neck  to 
get  through,  for  oaks  and  pines  and  firs  grow  on  this 
precipice  ;  high  ceanothus  bushes,  fragrant  with  blossom, 
make  wall-like  sides  to  the  path,  and  bend  in  as  if  trying 
to  arch  it.  In  so,.^e  places  the  rocks  are  bright  with 
flowers  and  ferns,  which  look  as  if  they  were  holding 
on  for  dear  life  and  climbing  up  :  they  project  so  nearly 
at  right  angles  from  the  steep  surfaces.  With  almost 
every  step  we  get  a  new  view,  —  more  depth,  more 
valley,  more  wall,  more  towering  rock.  The  small 
cleared  spaces  in  the  valley  are  vivid  light  green  ; 
they  seem  sunken  like  emerald-paved  wells  among  the 
masses  of  dark  firs  and  pines,  whose  tops  lie  solid  and 
black  below  us.  The  opposite  wall  of  the  valley  looks 
steeper  than  the  wall  we  are  descending.  It  seems 
within  stone's  throw,  or  as  if  we  might  call  across  ;  it 
is  less  than  a  half-mile  distant.  Its  top  seems  far  higher 
than  the  point  from  which  we  set  out ;  for  it  lies  in  full 
sunshine,  and  we  are  in  shadow.     One  waterfall  aftei 


I02  BITS   OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

another  comes  into  view,  streaming  over  its  edge  like 
smooth  silver  hands.  The  guide  cails  cut  their  names  : 
"Inspiration  Fall,"  "Bridal  Veil  Fall."  The  words 
seem  singularly  meaningless,  face  tc  face  with  the  falls. 
How  do  men  dare  to  name  things  so  confidently  ?  The 
luggage  mule,  who  is  ahead,  keeps  clambering  out  of  the 
path,  in  search  of  something  to  eat.  Weconu  upon 
him  sometimes  apparently  standing  bolt  upright  on  his 
hind-legs,  he  is  feeding  on  so  sharp  a  slope.  We  all 
halt,  while  the  guide  spurs  his  horse  up  the  rocks  and 
drives  the  mule  down  again.  We  are  almost  grateful 
that  the  mule  makes  us  laugh,  for  Ah-wah-ne  overawes 
us.  It  takes  an  hour  to  reach  tiie  bottom  of  the  wall. 
As  we  near  it,  the  opposite  wall  appears  to  lift  and  grow 
and  stretch,  till  the  sky  seems  pushed  higher.  Our  trail 
lies  along  the  bank  of  the  river,  on  sandy  stretches  of 
low  meadow,  shaded  by  oaks  and  willows  and  bordered 
by  alders.  Occasionally  we  come  to  fields  of  bowlders 
and  stones,  which  have  broken  and  rolled  down  from 
the  walls  above  ;  then  we  pass  through  green  bits  of 
grass-grown  land,  threaded  by  little  streams,  which  we 
ford  ;  then  we  ride  through  great  groves  of  pines  and 
firs,  two  and  three  hundred  feet  high.  These  feel  dark 
and  damp,  though  the  ground  is  sandy,  for  it  is  long 
past  sunset  here  ;  but  the  gray  spi'.s  and  domes  and 
pinnacles  of  the  eastern  wall  of  the  valley  are  still 
bright  in  sunlight.  The  luggage  mule  trots  off  and  dis- 
appears. After  vain  efforts  to  combine  the  two  duties 
of  looking  after  him  and  looking  after  us,  Sol  White 
finally  gallops  away,  exclaiming  :  — 

"  That  pesky  mule'U  swim  the  river  with  your  bag- 
gage, an'  not  be  heard  of  for  days,  if  I  don't  keep  close 
up  to  him.  You  can't  miss  your  way.  There  ain't  but 
this  one  trail  up  the  valley,  an'  its  only  five  miles  to 
Hutchings's." 

What  miles  they  were.  Mile  by  mile  the  grand  rocks, 
whose  shapes  and  names  we  already  knew,  rose  up  on 
either  hand :  The  Cathedral  Rocks,  The  Spires,  El 
Capitan,  The  Three  Brothers,  The  Sentinel     Already 


THE  DESCENT  INTO  AIT-WAH-NE.       103 

the  twilight  wrapped  the  western  wall.  The  front  of 
El  Capitan  looked  black ;  but  its  upper  edsje  was  lined 
with  light,  as  sometimes  a  dark  clout!  will  be  when  the 
sun  is  shining  behind.  The  eastern  wall  was  carved 
and  wrought  into  gigantic  forms,  which  in  the  lessening 
light  grew  more  and  more  fantastic  and  weird  every 
moment.  Bars  and  beams  of  sunlight  fell,  quivered, 
and  vanished  on  summit  after  summit,  as  we  passed. 
At  last  we  heard  the  sound  of  waters  ahead  to  the  left. 
Soon  we  saw  the  white  line,  indistinct,  waving,  ghostly, 
coming  down  apparently  from  the  clouds,  for  it  was  too 
dark  to  see  distinctly  the  lip  of  a  fall  two  thousand  and 
seven  hundred  feet  up  in  the  air.  This  was  the  great 
Yosemite  Fall.  Its  sound  is  unlike  that  of  any  other 
fall  I  have  seen.  It  is  not  so  loud  as  one  would  expect, 
and  it  is  not  continuous  or  even  in  tone.  Listening  to 
it  intently,  one  hears  strange  rhythmic  emphases  of 
undertone  on  a  much  lower  key.  They  are  grand. 
They  are  like  the  notes  of  a  gigantic  violoncello,  — 
booming,  surging,  filling  full  and  rounding  out  the  har- 
mony of  supernatural  music.  Sometimes  they  have  an 
impatient  and  crashing  twist,  as  if  the  bow  escaped  the 
player's  hand  ;  sometimes,  for  an  hour,  they  are  regular 
and  alike,  as  the  beats  of  a  metronome.  Men  have 
said  that  these  sounds  are  made  by  rocks  thundering 
down  under  the  water.  They  may  be.  I  would  rather 
not  know. 

For  the  last  mile  before  reaching  Hutchings's  Hotel, 
the  trail  is  little  more  than  a  sandy  path,  winding  in  and 
among  huge  granite  bowlders,  under  and  around  oak 
and  pine  trees,  and  over  and  through  little  runs  and 
[)Ools,  when  the  Merced  River  is  high.  It  ends  abruptly, 
in  a  rough  and  dusty  place,  partly  cleared  of  bowlders, 
pnrtly  cleared  of  trees.  Here  are  four  buildings,  which 
stand  apparently  where  they  happened  to,  between  the 
rocks  and  trees.  Three  of  these  make  up  Hutchings's 
Hotel.  Two  of  them  are  cottages,  used  only  for  lodg- 
ings. One  of  these  is  called  "  The  Cottage  by  the 
River,"  and  stands  closer  than  is  safe  to  the  banks  of  the 


I04  BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

Merced ;  the  other  is  called  "  The  Cottage  in  the  Rocks,' 
and  seems  half  barricaded  by  granite  bowlders.  "  Oh, 
Mr.  Hiitchings  !  "  we  exclaimed.  "  Put  us  in  the  '  Cot- 
tage by  the  River.'    We  cannot  be  happy  anywhere  else." 

There  are  no  such  rooms  in  Ah-wah-ne  as  the  rooms 
on  the  river-side  of  this  little  house.  This  is  the  back 
side  ;  and  those  who  wish  to  see  the  coming  and  going 
of  people,  the  setting-off  of  saddle-trains,  the  driving  up 
and  down  of  the  laundry  wagon,  would  better  take  rooms 
on  the  front.  But  he  who  would  like  to  open  his  eyes  every 
morning  on  the  full  shining  of  the  great  Yosemite  Fall ; 
to  lie  in  bed,  and  from  his  very  pillow  watch  it  sway  to 
right  and  left  under  moonlight  beams,  which  seem  like 
wands  arresting  or  hastening  the  motion  ;  to  look  down 
mto  the  amber  and  green  Merced,  which  caresses  his 
very  door-sill  ;  to  listen  at  all  hours  to  the  grand  violon- 
cello tones  of  the  mysterious  waters,  —  let  him  ask,  as  we 
did,  for  back  bedrooms  in  the  Cottage  by  the  River. 

But  if  he  is  disconcerted  by  the  fact  that  his  bedroom 
floor  is  of  rough  pine  boards,  and  his  bedroom  walls  of 
thin  laths,  covered  with  unbleached  cotton  ;  that  he  has 
neither  chair,  nor  table,  nor  pitcher  ;  that  his  washbowl 
is  a  shallow  tin  pan,  and  that  all  the  water  he  wants  he 
must  dip  in  a  tin  pint  from  a  barrel  out  in  the  hall ;  that 
his  bed  is  a  sack  stuffed  with  ferns,  his  one  window  has 
no  curtain  and  his  door  no  key,  — let  him  leave  Ah-wah- 
ne  the  next  day. 

Not  that  there  are  not  tables  and  chairs  and  wash- 
bowls and  pitchers  and  keys  in  Hutchings's  Hotel  ;  and 
not  that  you  cannot,  by  a  judicious  system  of  "jump- 
ing" and  coaxing  and  feeing,  very  soon  collect  these 
useful  articles,  and  lock  them  up  in  your  room,  and  live 
decently  and  with  sufficient  comfort  for  weeks  in  the 
muslin-walled  bedroom;  but  the  soul  which  in  its  first 
hours  in  Ah-wah-ne  can  be  hindered  or  interrupted  by 
sense  of  lack  or  loss  on  account  of  its  body's  being 
poorly  lodged  will  never  thrive  in  Ah-wah-ne  air.  It 
has  come  to  the  wrong  place  of  all  places  in  the  world, 
and  the  sooner  it  takes  itself  and  body  3wav  the  bettei 
tor  it  and  for  Ah-wah-ne. 


AH-WAH-NE   DAYS.  105 


AH-WAH-NE   DAYS. 

THEY  do  not  dawn  like  days  elsewhere.  How  should 
they,  seeing  that  the  sun  has  been  long  up  before 
he  looks  over  into  Ah-wah-ne  ?  They  burst,  they  flash, 
they  begin  like  a  trumpet  peal.  One  moment  it  is 
morning  twilight.  The  swaying  torrent  of  the  Great 
Fall  looks  dim  at  the  edges,  and  Uie  pines  and  firs,  high 
in  the  air  by  its  side,  look  black.  The  next  moment  it 
is  broad  day.  The  Fall  shines  like  molten  silver  under 
the  streaming  sunlight,  and  the  firs  and  pines  are 
changed  in  a  twinkling  from  black  to  green.  This 
miracle  of  dayspring  was  the  first  sight  I  saw  in  Ah- 
wah-ne.  I  was  but  half  awake.  From  my  pillow  I 
looked  out  on  the  upper  half  of  the  Great  Fall.  An 
oval  of  gray  sky ;  white  foam  pouring  from  it,  and 
falling  into  a  bed  of  black  fir-tops  ;  waving  branches  of 
near  trees  just  beyond  my  window,  —  these  were  all  I 
saw.  Boom  !  boom  !  boom  !  sounded  the  mysterious  vio- 
loncello accompaniment,  measuring  and  making  rhyth- 
m.ical  the  roar  of  the  Fall.  Suddenly,  as  suddenly  as  a 
light-house  flashes  its  first  beam  seaward,  came  a  great 
blaze  of  yellow  hght  from  the  east,  making  the  water  daz- 
zling bright,  and  throwing  out  into  relief  every  green  spire 
fir  or  pine  on  the  precipice.  With  the  sudden  flood 
of  light  seemed  to  come  a  sudden  flood  of  louder  sound. 
I  sprang  to  the  window  in  wonder,  which  was  not 
without  a  vague  terror ;  but  in  that  very  second  the 
transformation  was  past,  the  quiet  look  of  full  day  had 
settled  on  all  things.  Almost  I  doubted  the  vision  I 
had  seen.  It  was  simply  broad  daylight ;  that  was  all. 
The  air  was  full  of  fleecy-winged  seeds  from  Balm  of 


lo6  BITS  OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

Gilead  trees.  They  went  slowly,  sinking  and  rising,  oul 
steadily  to  the  north,  like  a  snowy  flock  following  an  in- 
visible shepherd.  As  they  passed,  they  seemed  to  spin 
fine  silken  lines  athwart  the  Fall ;  and  they  came  so 
fast  and  thick  they  hindered  my  seeing.  There  was  a 
strange  sweetness  of  peace  and  promise  in  their  pres- 
ence. The  Great  Fall  so  loud,  so  vast :  they  so  small, 
so  still.  Three  thousand  feet  from  my  window-sill  up 
to  the  top  of  the  wall  over  which  the  torrent  of  waters 
fell ;  within  my  hand's  reach,  the  current,  silent,  irre- 
sistible, unmeasured,  on  which  centuries  of  forest  were 
gliding  into  place. 

This  was  the  first  beginning  of  my  first  day  in  Ah- 
wah-ne.  Two  hours  later  was  the  second  beginning  of 
the  same  day.  It  is  odd  how  much  bustle  there  can  be 
in  Ah-wah-ne.  Sit  on  the  hotelward  piazza  of  Hutch- 
ings's  River  Cottage  from  seven  till  nine,  and  no  mo- 
ment goes  by  empty.  The  little  clearing  is  dusty  ;  the 
sun  beats  down  ;  people  crossing  from  house  to  house, 
zigzag,  to  get  into  shade  of  the  oaks  or  into  dust  an  inch 
or  so  less  deep.  On  every  piazza  sit  groups  ready  to 
set  out  on  excursions,  and  waiting  for  their  guides  to 
bring  up  the  horses  and  mules.  Under  the  trees,  be- 
yond the  hotel,  is  a  long  line  of  the  unfortunate  beasts, 
saddled  hap-hazard  and  tied  to  the  fence,  waiting  the 
evil  that  may  betide  them.  They  have  been  saddled 
since  four  or  five  o'clock  ;  perhaps  they  will  stand  there 
till  three.  Now  and  then  a  man  comes  riding  over  the 
bridge,  driving  in  a  few  more,  which  he  has  just  caught. 
Poor  things  !  They  miscalculated  distances,  and  did 
not  run  away  quite  far  enough  in  the  night.  Sometimes 
a  wiry,  weather-beaten  old  guide  dashes  round  and 
round  the  clearing  (I  think  I  will  call  it  plaza,  since  I 
do  not  know  what  name  the  Ah-wah-ne-chee  had  for 
little  clearings)  —  dashes  round  the  plaza,  trying  to 
break  in  a  vicious  mule  or  mustang.  Sometimes  the 
mustang  gets  the  better  ;  sometimes  the  guide.  Then 
comes  the  laundry  wagon,  tilting  up  and  down  on  its 
two    big   wheels,    stopping    at    everybody's    doof    foi 


AH-WAH-NE  DAYS.  107 

clothes  for  the  laundry.  It  is  painted  bright  blue, 
and,  being  the  only  thing  seen  going  about  on  wheels 
in  Ah-\vah-ne,  looks  marvellously  queer. 

Then  comes  along  an  Indian  woman,  with  a  pappoose 
on  her  back.  Half  naked,  dirty  beyond  words,  her  stiff, 
vicious-looking  hair  falling  around  her  forehead  like 
fringed  eaves,  her  soulless  eyes  darting  quick  glances 
to  right  and  left,  in  search  of  a  possible  charity,  she 
strides  through  the  plaza,  and  disappears  among  the 
thickets  and  bowlders.  She  belongs  to  a  colony  which 
has  camped  half  a  mile  below.  They  will  dance  a 
hideous  dance  for  a  few  pennies.  They  are  descendants 
of  Tenaya,  no  doubt  ;  but  Tenaya  would  scorn  them 
to-day. 

Next  comes  a  party  of  riders  from  one  of  the  hotels 
below.  They  all  sit  straight,  and  try  to  prick  their 
horses  into  a  quicker  gait,  as  they  pass  Hutchings's 
piazzas.  Some  of  the  women  are  dressed  in  bloomers, 
and  ride  astride.  One  can  hardly  believe  one's  eyes  look- 
ing at  them.  They  who  have  had  strength  of  mind  and 
body  to  persevere  in  learning  to  ride  in  this  way  say  it 
is  far  easier  and  safer.  But  it  would  still  remain  a  ques- 
tion whether  there  are  not  evils  more  to  be  disliked  than 
fatigue  and  tumbling  from  one's  horse  'i  We  wonder 
vaguely  where  these  riders  can  be  going.  The  high 
granite  walls  appear  to  shut  in  upon  all  sides.  There 
seems  no  way  for  any  thing  but  water  to  get  in,  and  no 
way  for  anything  at  all  to  get  out.  One  forgets  the 
trail  by  which  he  himself  came  down,  and  hstens  doubt- 
ingly  to  the  mention  of  others  leading  up  on  other  places 
in  the  wall.  Once  in,  once  down  in  this  magic  abyss, 
which  men  have  chosen  to  call  a  valley,  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  seems  incredible,  unreal,  and  unattainable. 
But  the  riders  ride  on,  and  are  soon  out  of  sight  among 
the  oaks  and  willows  which  shade  the  meadow  beyond 
the  hotel.  They  are  going  to  Lake  Ah-wi-yah,  known 
now,  thanks  to  some  American  importer  of  looking- 
glasses,  as  Mirror  Lake.  If  they  reach  the  lake  early 
enough,  they  will  see  a  water  surface,  two  acres  in  ex- 


ro8  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

tent,  so  smooth,  so  clear  that  the  whole  of  the  South 
Dome  will  be  reflected  in  it.  Across  the  lake,  even 
to  the  roots  of  the  sedges  and  white  violets,  reaches 
the  pale  picture  of  the  majestic  granite  mountain,  over 
four  thousand  feet  high.  The  Ah-wah-ne-chee  lived 
chiefly  on  acorns  and  wore  wild  beasts'  skins ;  but 
there  were  poets  among  them  who  named  this  benignant 
gray  stone  mountain,  for  ever  gazing  calmly  into  the 
lake,  "  Tis-sa-ack,"  "  Goddess  of  the  Valley." 

As  this  party  disappears  on  the  left,  another  winds 
slowly  off  on  the  right, — people  going  away  from  Ah- 
wah-ne.  Every  morning  these  are  to  be  seen,  and 
"  Saddle-train  for  Gentry's  will  start  at  half-past  six  "  is 
posted  on  the  hotel  walls.  But  the  train  rarely  leaves 
at  half-past  six.  There  are  obstacles  in  the  way.  As 
I  have  before  said,  there  are  the  horses  to  be  caught. 
But  this  is  not  the  greatest  obstacle.  There  is  breakfast 
to  be  eaten  (I  was  on  the  point  of  saying  "caught"). 
Mealtime  at  Hutchings's  is  a  species  of  secular  pass- 
over  :  breakfast  is  a  freebooting  foray,  lunch  a  quieter 
foraging  excursion,  dinner  a  picnic.  As  soon  as  one 
learns  the  order  or  disorder  of  the  thing,  one  can  get 
on  ;  but  it  is  droll  to  watch  the  newly  arrived  or  the 
obstinately  fastidious  traveller,  sitting  in  blank  astonish- 
ment at  the  absence  of  most  which  he  expects  to  find  in 
a  dining-room.  Mr.  Hutchings  is  an  enthusiast,  a 
dreamer,  a  visionary.  He  loved  Ah-wah-ne  well  enough 
years  ago  to  make  his  home  in  its  uninhabited  solitude, 
and  find  in  its  grand  silences  all  the  companionship  he 
needed.  He  loves  it  well  enough  to-day  to  feel  all  the 
instinct  of  loving  hospitahty  in  his  welcome  to  every 
traveller  who  has  journeyed  to  find  it  by  reason  of  the 
fame  of  its  beauty.  All  this  is  plainly  to  be  seen  in  his 
mobile,  artistic  face,  and  in  the  affectionate  ring  of  every 
word  that  he  speaks  of  the  Valley. 

But  landlords  are  not  made  of  such  stuff  as  this. 
Artistic  sensibility  and  enthusiasm  do  not  help  a  man 
to  order  dinner.  Mr.  Hutchings  has  been  for  some  time 
seeking  a  business  partner,  to  relieve  him  of  the  practical 


AH-WAH-NE    DAYS.  109 

cares  of  the  hotel.  When  he  finds  the  right  person  for 
this  position,  and  is  thus  left  at  leisure  himself  to  be 
the  host  of  Ah-wah-ne,  and  not  of  a  house,  Ah-vvah-ne 
will  gain  a  most  eloquent  interpreter  and  travellers 
thither  will  fare  better. 

When  the  morning  saddle-train  is  fairly  off  and  the 
last  excursion  party  has  ridden  away  a  lull  settles  down 
on  the  little  plaza.  A  few  horses  are  still  left  standing 
at  the  tethering-posts.  They  are  the  lamest  and  laziest 
and  feeblest, —  the  refuse  ones,  that  no  guide  takes  un- 
less he  must.  Poor  things,  their  heads  sink  lower  and 
lower,  their  tails  shrink,  and  their  legs  shorten,  the 
longer  they  stand.  They  do  not  move  a  muscle  for 
hours,  except  to  shift  the  burden  of  their  hfeless  weight 
slowly  from  one  leg  to  another. 

In  this  after-breakfast  lull  of  our  first  Ah-wah-ne  day 
we  met  John  Murphy,  guide.  We  had  set  our  affections 
upon  the  ruddy  face  of  Sol  White,  who  had  brought  us 
into  the  Valley,  and  we  had  tried  hard  to  press  him  into 
our  service  for  the  whole  of  our  stay.  But  Mr.  Hutch- 
ings  was  inexorable.  Sol  White  could  not  be  spared 
from  the  saddle-train. 

"  Then,  Mr.  White,"  said  we,  confidentially,  "  tell  us 
who  of  all  the  guides  you  think  we  should  lilce  best." 

"  I  reckon  you'd  hke  John  Murphy.  He's  settled 
consid'able  ;  but  there  ain't  no  better  guide  in  the  Valley. 
He  knows  every  inch  on't.  I  reckon  he's  just  the  sort 
o'  man  you  folks  'd  take  to." 

When  John  Murphy  walked  slowly  toward  us,  as  we 
sat  on  the  piazza,  I  understood  what  the  word  "  settled  " 
had  meant.  Upon  every  inch  of  the  tall,  almost  gaunt, 
frame  was  set  the  indefinable  stamp  of  years  of  frontier 
life.  No  firmness  was  lost  from  the  fibre,  no  elasticity 
from  the  action  ;  but  the  firmness  and  the  elasticity 
were  as  unlike  those  of  a  young  man  as  the  3^oung  man's 
would  be  unlike  the  boy's.  To  Sol  White,  no  doubt. 
Murphy  seemed  old.  As  he  came  nearer,  I  saw  that  he 
was  the  very  man  whose  face  had  so  strongly  impressed 
me  at  Gentry's,  the  day  before,  when,  on  overhearing 


i.io  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME, 

my  proposition  to  have  the  horses  fed,  he  had  muttered  *. 
"  'Tain't  no  kindness  to  'em.  The  sooner  they  die  the 
better."  It  was  an  uncommon  face  ;  it  was  at  once 
hard  and  tender,  sad  and  droll,  shrewd  and  simple.  The 
eyes  looked  strangely  younger  than  the  weather-beaten 
cheeks  and  lined  temples,  and  the  voice  was  low  and 
deep-toned. 

"  I  did  calkalate  to  give  up  guidin',"  said  Murphy. 
"  I  wa'n't  goin'  out  again  with  anybody." 

"  Why  so  .'^  "  said  we. 

"  Because  I  can't  have  anythin'  's  I  think  it  ought  to 
be.  I  won't  put  folks  on  some  o'  these  horses.  An'  I 
can't  stand  it  to  be  goin'  about  with  folks  an'  see  'm  so 
dissatisfied  all  the  time,  an'  blamin'  me,  too,  for  what 
ain't  no  fault   o'  mine." 

"  But,  Mr.  Murphy,"  we  pleaded,  "  we  will  not  be 
dissatisfied  with  any  thing ;  and,  if  we  are,  we  won't 
blame  you.  Do  be  our  guide.  We  shall  stay  a  week, 
and  we  want  you  to  be  with  us  every  day." 

"  Well,  I  did  tell  Mr.  Hutchings  I  was  done  guidin'. 
But  I'll  stick  to  you  's  long  's  you  stay.  But  it's  the  last 
guidin'  I  shall  do  till  things  is  fixed  very  different. 
You'll  be  the  last,  sure." 

So  John  Murphy  became  our  guide.  How  well  we 
learned  to  know  the  pathetic,  twinkling  face  before  we 
parted  from  it.  How  familiar  to  our  eyes  became  the 
queer  brown-gingham  Garibaldi,  a  little  too  short,  which 
seemed  in  Murphy's  esteem  to  be  suited  to  all  weathers. 

After  dinner  we  set  out  for  the  Pohono  Fall.  Not 
even  the  frequent  hearing  from  the  Hps  of  companions 
of  its  other  name  —  "  The  Bridal  Veil  "  —  could  banish 
from  my  thoughts  the  sweet  vowel  cadences  by  which 
tlie  Ah-wah-ne-chee  had  called  it.  Pohono  was  an 
evil  spirit.  His  breath  was  a  fatal  wind,  sweeping  over 
this  precipice  and  swaying  the  Fall.  The  Ah-wah-ne- 
chee  hurried  past  it  in  fear,  and  would  never  sleep 
within  sound  of  its  waters.  They  beheved,  also,  that 
the  voices  of  its  drowned  victims  were  continually  to  be 
heard  calling,  through  the  roar  and  the  foam :  "  Shun 
Pohono  ! " 


AH-WAH-NE  DAYS.  ill 

Perhaps  Pohono  had  cast  an  evil  eye  upon  me  this 
day,  not  knowing  how  reverently  I  was  drawing  near. 
Surely,  nobody  in  the  party  had  fuller  faith  in  the  legend 
of  his  wickedness  and  his  power.  But  I  was  not  per- 
mitted to  reach  his  shrine  that  afternoon.  Why  I  did 
not  keep  on  is  a  secret  between  the  mule,  John  Murphy, 
and  me.  I  will  not  tell  it.  When  at  last  I  said  :  "  Mr. 
Murphy,  I  must  get  off  this  minute.  I  will  wait  here 
by  the  road  till  you  come  back,"  he  rephed  seriously: 
"  Well,  I  didn't  much  think  you  could."  But  his  face 
expressed  the  regret  which  his  reticence  did  not  utter. 
And,  as  he  tied  that  mule  to  a  low  branch  of  a  live  oak, 
J  heard  some  kicks  on  ribs  and  an  unflattering  epithet. 

"  Won't  ye  be  skeared  ?  "  said  Murphy,  as  he  re- 
mounted his  horse.  "  Ye  hain't  no  occasion  to  be  ;  but 
I  dunno  but  ye'll  be  lonesome." 

Lonesome  !  They  were  almost  my  best  hours  in  Ah 
wah-ne.  As  the  last  voice  and  hoof-fall  died  away  in 
the  distance,  and  the  little  cloud  of  dust  settled  slowly 
down  on  the  brakes,  an  indescribable  delight  took  pos- 
session of  me.  The  silence  seemed  more  than  silence  ; 
it  seemed  to  quiver  without  sound,  just  as  the  warm  air 
shimmered  without  stir  along  all  the  outlines  of  the 
rocky  walls.  On  my  left  hand  rose  the  granite  watch- 
tower  Loya  (Sentinel  Rock),  on  my  right  the  colossal 
buttress  Tutocanula  (El  Capitan).  The  Cathedral,  the 
Spires,  the  Three  Brothers,  all  were  in  full  sight.  Wher- 
ever I  stood,  the  mountain  walls  seemed  to  shut  close 
around  me  in  a  circle.  I  said  to  myself,  again  and 
again  :  "  Only  between  three  and  four  thousand  feet 
high."  But  the  figures  had  lost  their  meaning.  All 
sense  of  estimated  distance  was  swallowed  up,  oblit- 
erated by  the  feeling  of  what  seemed  to  be  immeasurable 
height.  It  is  said  by  some  that  the  eye  does  not  recog- 
nize differences  of  magnitude  beyond  a  certain  hmit; 
that,  for  instance,  a  fall  three  thousand  feet  high  does 
not  look  much  higher  than  one  fifteen  hundred  feet. 
This  seems  a  safe  proposition.  Who  can  either  prove 
or  disprove  it  ?     But  it  would  be  hard  to  make  one  look- 


112  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

ing  up  to  the  dim  upper  edge  of  the  wall  of  Ah-wah-nc 
believe  that  the  grandeur  does  not  gain,  infinitely  gain, 
by  each  height  to  which  it  mounts. 

The  road  was  sandy,  and  ran  through  forests  of  oaks 
and  pines,  which  stretched  to  the  base  of  the  Valley 
walls  on  either  hand.  The  ground  was  covered  in  some 
places  with  a  dense  growth  of  brakes  ;  then  came  bare 
and  sandy  stretches,  strewn  with  drift-wood  by  the 
spring  freshets  of  the  Merced,  which  was  close  at  hand 
on  the  right.     I  walked  down  to  its  very  edge,  and  tried 

.  to  look  up  from  thence  to  the  top  of  El  Capitan,  which 
rose  abruptly  from  the  further  bank.     To  do  this,  it  is 

'  necessary  to  throw  the  head  back,  almost  as  if  to  look 
at  a  ceihng,  so  vertical  is  that  grand  wall.  Its  surface 
was  of  a  sharp,  dark  gray,  with  black  and  white  mark- 
ings, so  curiously  blended  they  looked  almost  like  giant 
hieroglyphs.  In  an  earlier  and  stronger  hght  afterward 
I  saw  El  Capitan,  of  a  pale  pearl  gray,  hardly  darker 
than  the  soft  ashes  of  a  wood-fire,  and  the  hieroglyphs 
all  melted  away  into  indistinct  tintings  of  brown  and 
yellowish  white. 

Presently  I  heard  axe-strokes  in  the  distance,  —  two 
axes  alternating  with  each  other  in  rhythmic  precision. 
After  a  time  I  walked  toward  them.  Suddenly  they 
stopped,  and  in  that  instant  began  a  loud  crash,  which 
seemed  to  come  rapidly  nearer  and  nearer  me.  I  could 
see  nothing,  but  I  involuntarily  stepped  back.  The 
noise  came  nearer,  but  grew  fainter.  Then  came  the 
heavy  thud  on  the  ground  ;  the  tree  had  fallen.  I  could 
just  distinguish  the  quivering  top  of  it  between  the  trees, 
a  little  way  off.  The  crashing  noise,  which  had  seemed 
to  journey  toward  me  so  inexphcably,  was  the  noise  of 
the  breaking  branches  of  other  trees,  past  which  it  fell. 
I  went  close  to  it.  Two  woodsmen  were  sitting  on  the 
ground  by  it,  and  looked  up  in  undisguised  astonish- 
ment at  the  sight  of  me.  The  tree  still  trembled  and 
vibrated  along  its  whole  length.  Drops  of  water,  like 
tears,  were  trickling  out  fast  from  its  under  side,  — 
water  which  had  been  stored  away  for  the  summer  in  the 


AH-WAH-NE^  DAYS.  113 

cistern  fissures  of  its  rough  bark.  It  was  a  pine,  and 
nearly  two  hundred  feet  high  ;  the  cirding  rings  which 
had  kept  record  of  its  birthdays  showed  clear  on  the 
yellow  disk,  as  on  a  dial-plate. 

''  How  old  was  it  ?  "  said  I.  The  men  bent  over  and 
counted  in  silence. 

"Well  nigh  on  to  four  hundred  years  it  must  hev 
ben/'  said  they. 

"And  how  long  have  you  been  cutting  it  down  ?" 

A  quick  gleam  passed  over  their  faces.  They  had 
caught  my  feehng  before  I  had  put  it  in  words. 

"  Well,  about  two  hours,  or  mebbe  three,"  replied  one 
of  them,  glancing  up  at  the  sun. 

"  Only  think  of  that !  "  I  said.  "  Four  hundred  years 
growing,  and  cut  down  in  three  hours." 

"  I  vow,  I  never  thought  o'  that  before,  Jim.  Did 
you  ? "  said  the  youngest  of  the  two. 

"No,  dunno's  I  did,"  rephed  Jim,  hacking  medita- 
tively at  the  stump  and  looking  down. 

It  was  near  sunset  when  the  party  came  back  from 
Pohono's  Fall.  I  had  spent  the  last  hour  sitting  on  an 
old  oak  log,  in  front  of  the  majestic  stone  face  of  "  Tu- 
tock-ah-nu-lah."  Three  thousand  feet  up  in  the  air,  cut 
on  an  inaccessible  peak,  serene,  sad,  majestic,  there  it 
lives.  It  does  not  vanish  on  a  slight  change  of  position 
by  the  observer,  as  do  other  stone  faces,  sculptured  by 
Nature's  hand  on  mountain-walls.  It  seems  to  turn  and 
gaze  after  you,  whether  you  go  up  or  down  the  Valley. 
It  is  watchful.  It  is  the  face  of  the  first  chieftain  who 
ruled  the  Children  of  the  Sun  who  lived  in  Ah-wah-ne. 
He  loved  Tis-sa-ack,  the  goddess,  whose  face,  as  I  have 
said,  is  reflected  each  morning  in  Lake  Ah-wi-yah. 
When  she  flew  away,  the  down  from  her  wings  floated 
over  the  lake,  and,  sinking  to  the  ground,  sprang  up  in 
white  violets,  which  blossom  to  this  day  on  the  shores 
of  Ah-wi-yah.  Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah  left  his  kingdom  and 
roved  the  earth  in  pursuit  of  his  love.  But,  that  hi? 
people  might  not  forget  him,  he  carved  his  face  on  this 
rock. 

8 


114  BITS  OF    TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

"  Oh  !  has  not  the  time  seemed  long  to  you  ? "  ex- 
claimed everybody,  in  sympathizing  tones,  as  the  party 
rode  up.  Murphy  looked  observantly  into  my  face,  a 
twinkle  came  into  his  eye,  and,  as  he  mounted  me  once 
more  on  that  mule,  he  said,  in  a  low  tone  : 
"  I  reckon  ye  like  bein'  alone  ;  don't  yer  ?" 
"Yes,  Mr.  Murphy,"  said  I.  "As  well  as  if  I  were 
A  woman  of  the  Ah-wah-ne-chee." 


PI-WY-ACK  AND    YO-WI-HE.  11$ 


PI-WY-ACK   AND   YO-WI-HE. 

IN  the  language  of  the  Ah-wah-ne-chee,  who  always 
spoke  truth,  "Pi-wy-ack"  means  "white  water"  or 
"  shower  of  shining  crystals,"  and  "  Yo-wi-he  "  means 
"the  twisting"  or  "the  meandering."  These  were  the 
names  of  the  two  great  falls  by  which  the  Merced  (River 
of  Mercy)  leaps  into  Ah-wah-ne.  Then  came  the  white 
men,  liars ;  they  called  the  upper  fall  "  Nevada,"  and 
the  lower  one  "  Vernal ;  "  and  the  lies  prevailed ;  being, 
as  Hes  are  apt  to  be,  easier  said  than  the  truth. 

Ah-wah-ne  guides  tell  you  that  you  can  see  both  these 
falls  in  one  day,  leaving  Hutchings's  early  in  the  morn- 
ing and  returning  late  in  the  afternoon.  This  is  true,  if 
the  verb  to  see  means  simply  to  look  at.  John  Murphy 
defined  it  better : 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  the  way  to  see  them  two  falls,"  he 
said.  "  You  jest  make  your  calkerlations  to  stay  over 
night  to  Snow's  an'  you'll  re'ly  see  'em.  There  don't 
nobody  see  a  thing  that  jest  rides  up  to  it,  an'  turns 
round  an'  rides  away.  It's  jest  the  greatest  place  for 
moonlight,  up  on  that  Nevada  Fall,  you  ever  see." 

Sol  White  was  right.  John  Murphy  was  "jest  the 
sort  o'  person  "  we  "  folks  would  take  to."  How  much 
of  Ah-wah-ne  we  should  have  lost  or  have  but  half 
known  except  for  him  ! 

So  we  set  out  for  Pi-wy-ack  in  the  early  afternoon. 
We  too  rode  through  the  mysterious  opening  in  the  line 
of  tethering  posts,  where  we  had  watched  party  after 
party  disappear,  just  beyond  the  hotel.  Right  into  an 
oak  and  willow  wood,  right  into  a  swamp,  right  into  an 
overflow  of  the  Merced  River  itself  rode  Murphy.    His 


Il6  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

white  horse  was  up  to  the  saddle-girths  in  water.  It 
plunged  and  seemed  to  stumble.  Murphy  glanced 
quietly  over  his  shoulder  at  us. 

"Keep  right  behind  me,  and  there's  no  danger. 
Don't  bear  to  the  left.  It's  ten  foot  deep  just  off 
there." 

It  was  good  generalship  to  make  us  concentrate  our 
attention  on  the  one  point  of  keeping  close  in  his  steps. 
No  doubt  we  could  have  ridden  as  safely  a  little  to  the 
left ;  but  we  should  have  been  twice  as  frightened  at 
the  place  we  were  in  if  we  had  not  been  occupied  in  try- 
ing to  avoid  a  worse  one.  It  was  an  ugly  slough, — 
water  ten  feet  deep  on  the  left ;  the  current  running 
quite  fast ;  the  horses  stumbling  over  the  hidden  rocks  ; 
and  close  on  the  right  a  confusion  of  high  rocks,  up 
which  no  horse  could  possibly  clamber.  But  it  only 
lasted  a  minute  or  two,  and  nobody  fell  in  ;  and  then 
we  came  out  at  once  on  the  meadows.  Ah  !  the  beauty 
of  the  eastern  meadow  land  of  Ah-wah-ne,  shaded  by 
oaks  and  pines,  and  spruces  and  maples,  in  groves, 
without  underbrush  ;  threaded  by  little  streams,  which 
zigzag  capriciously  among  thickets  of  alders  and  white 
azalea ;  and  between,  white  shining  bars  and  stretches 
of  sand,  like  miniature  beeches.  They  lose  themselves 
in  each  other  or  in  the  Merced  ;  or  stop  of  a  sudden,  as 
if  changing  their  mind.  You  leap  them,  you  ford  them, 
you  indulge  your  horse  in  sipping  them,  one  after  an- 
other, just  for  the  pleasure  of  it.  They  seem  almost  a 
relief  sometimes  from  the  grandeur  of  the  lofty  walls  on 
every  side.  So,  also,  do  the  flowers,  with  which  great 
spaces  here  and  there  are  bright,  —  red  lilies  and  yellow, 
deep  blue  larkspur,  rose^colored  everlasting,  columbine, 
wild  roses,  and  yellow  honeysuckles,  besides  many  others 
which  do  not  grow  out  of  Ah-wah-ne.  After  looking  up 
at  the  terrible  To-coy-ae  and  Tis-sa-ack,  bald  granite 
domes  four  and  five  thousand  feet  high,  after  following 
the  line  of  overlapping  arches  and  columns  and  peaks 
of  stone  ;  high  up  in  the  air  on  either  hand  as  far  as  you 
can  see,  seeming  to  tower  and  grow,  and  threaten  to 


Fl-WY-ACK  AND    VO-WI-HE.  117 

topple  under  your  very  gaze,  —  there  is  a  sense  of  pro- 
tection in  the  neighborhood  of  an  azalea,  a  new  com- 
radeship with  a  daisy.  They  have  summ^^red  and 
wintered  in  Ah-wah-ne,  and  are  not  atraid. 

Two  miles  of  this  meadow,  and  then  the  Valley  ends, 
or,  rather,  branches  into  three,  so  narrow  that  they  are 
called  canyons.  As  we  came  near  this  point,  the  great 
walls  seemed  to  have  wheeled  and  opened.  All  the 
familiar  summits  looked  new  and  strange,  and  new 
summits,  almost  grander,  came  into  view.  Our  path 
lay  up  the  canyon  down  which  the  Merced  comes.  The 
noise  of  its  coming  soon  grew  loud.  The  path  winds 
close  along  its  edge.  Out  of  Ah-wah-ne,  we  should  not 
call  it  a  path.  Steep,  narrow,  full  of  bowlders,  between 
which  your  horse  turns  and  twists  at  such  sharp  angles 
you  sway  to  right  and  left  dizzily,  under  low-hanging 
Doughs,  between  bushes  which  catch  you  on  either  side, 
up  and  up  and  up  it  leads ;  and  the  Merced  on  the 
left  leaps  and  foams  and  roars,  louder  and  louder,  mile 
by  mile.  Now  we  caught  glimpses  of  its  white  foam 
between  the  dark  pines ;  then  it  would  plunge  into  still 
darker  depths,  and  be  out  of  sight  for  a  time.  As  we 
came  out  upon  open  points  here  and  there,  and  looked 
back,  we  could  see  no  valley  behind,  no  valley  anywhere, 
only  peaks  and  chasms  and  walls.  Except  for  the  green 
tops  of  the  trees,  struggling  up  among  them  or  clinging 
to  their  sides,  the  sight  would  have  been  desolate.  Yet 
it  was  among  those  peaks  and  chasms  that  we  had  seen 
the  azaleas.  Up  from  those  abysses  we  had  climbed, 
and  still  were  to  climb  ;  for  we  seemed  hardly  midway. 
Far  up  on  the  right,  so  far  up  that  the  pine-trees  looked 
like  bushes  on  an  almost  vertical  wall,  Murphy  pointed 
out  to  us  a  dark  line.     That,  he  said,  was  our  path. 

"  But  we  shall  have  to  wait  at  Lady  Franklin's  Rock," 
he  said,  "  until  the  party  that  went  up  this  morning  gets 
down.  There  ain't  no  passing  on  that  trail  when  /  tn 
guidin',  —  at  least,  not  if  I  can  help  it." 

Just  as  he  said  this,  we  turned  a  corner,  and  came  sud- 
denly  in    sight   of    Pi-wy-ack.      The    Ah-wah-ne-chee 


Ii8  BITS  OF   TRAVEL  AT  HUME. 

spoke  well.  Three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  of  "white 
water,"  "  shining  crystals,"  there  it  was,  with  solid  walls 
of  glittering  fir  and  pine  on  either  hand.  Lady  Frank- 
lin—  bless  her  loyal  woman's  heart  —  was  carried  in  a 
litter  up  to  this  point,  and  rested  on  the  broad  flat  rock 
which  bears  her  name. 

But  Pi-wy-ack  could  not  have  been  so  beautiful  when 
she  saw  it  as  on  this  day  ;  for  now  the  water  was  so  high 
that  the  rock  was  wet,  and  the  thick  moss  with  which 
it  is  covered  glistened  as  with  dew.  As  we  sat  waiting, 
we  heard  the  crackling  of  branches,  and  presently  there 
came  toward  us  four  figures,  bending  low,  running,  part- 
ing the  wet  bushes  above  their  heads,  leaping  from  stone 
to  stone.  They  were  black  and  shiny.  They  looked 
like  some  novel  specimen  of  upright  seal  or  walrus  ; 
but  they  were  men  and  women.  They  had  come  down 
under  the  spray  of  Pi-wy-ack.  As  they  threw  off  the 
India-rubber  wraps,  and,  sputtering  and  splashing, 
stamped  on  the  ground,  water  dripped  from  them.  But 
their  eyes  flashed  with  delight.  They  seemed  almost  to 
have  brought  the  rainbows  from  the  Fall  along  with 
them.  The  rest  of  their  party,  feebler  or  more  timo- 
rous, were  coming  on  horseback  by  the  trail ;  it  was  for 
them  we  were  to  wait.  It  seemed  long,  for  we  were 
impatient,  the  passion  for  climbing  deepens  so  fast  and 
the  lure  of  a  mountain  summit  ahead  is  so  magnetic. 
As  soon  as  they  came,  we  pushed  breathlessly  on,  turn- 
ing around  a  sharp  corner  of  the  rock-wall,  and  losing 
sight  of  Pi-wy-ack  at  once.  Now  the  real  climbing 
began.  We  smiled  to  think  we  had  called  it  steep, 
lower  down  in  the  canyon.  The  trail  zigzagged  up  prec- 
ipice after  precipice  ;  it  bent  at  as  sharp  angles  as  a 
ship's  course,  tacking  in  a  gale.  At  each  corner  the 
horses  stopped  to  breathe  ;  and,  if  we  had  the  nerve  to 
look  off"  and  over,  we  looked  down  on  the  tops  of  the 
heads  of  the  riders  coming  close  behind  us,  on  the  very 
next  bend  below.  They  seemed  winding  in  a  stately 
dance.  Further  down  one  could  hardly  bear  to  look. 
The  chasms  into  which  we  had  looked  before  seemed 


PI-WY-ACK  AND    YO-WI-HE.  119 

to  be  merged  in  one  gigantic  abyss,  the  bottom  of  which 
was  made  of  sharp  mountain  peaks  and  granite  needles 
and  ridges.  We  welcomed  every  shade  of  tree  or  shel- 
ter of  rock  which  seemed  to  stand  between  us  and  the 
edge  of  this  fathomless  space;  and  yet  the  sense  of 
grandeur  was  so  great  that  it  left  little  room  for  terror. 
We  were  drawing  near  to  peaks  higher  than  those  we 
had  left  behind.  Hundreds  or,  for  aught  we  could  feel, 
thousands  of  feet  below  us  thundered  the  river.  On 
the  further  side  of  it  rose  up  Mah-tah,  a  perpendicular 
rock-mountain,  two  thousand  feet  above  the  top  of  the 
fall  we  were  climbing  to  reach.  What  patriot  first  called 
this  peak  "  Cap  of  Liberty"  considerate  history  forgets. 
As  we  approached  the  head  of  the  canyon,  we  came 
out  on  fields  of  piled  bowlders  and  low  bushes.  The  trail 
was  now  literally  a  trail,  —  nothing  but  great,  dusty  hoof- 
tracks  between  these  bowlders  ;  and,  as  there  rarely 
seemed  any  especial  reason  for  following  them,  each 
horse  picked  his  way  much  as  he  liked.  To  this  I  owe 
it  that  my  first  view  of  the  Yo-wi-he  Fall  was  so  sudden 
that  the  whiteness  of  it  blinded  me  for  a  second,  as  hght- 
ning  does.  For  some  minutes  I  had  been  absorbed  in 
an  ignoble  contest  with  my  horse.  I  had  not  observed 
that  the  roar  of  the  Fall  sounded  louder.  I  looked  up 
unexpectant,  and  the  avalanche  of  dazzling  foam  flashed 
full  before  me.  It  is  nearly  twice  as  high  as  Pi-wy-ack 
and  of  much  statelier  movement.  About  midway — say 
three  hundred  feet  from  the  top  —  the  water  falls  against 
a  projecting  ledge.  This  twists  and  turns  and  throws 
out  the  upper  half  of  the  Fall  in  narrow,  waving  sepa- 
rate lengths,  which  look  hke  myriads  of  gigantic  Roman 
candles,  made  of  snow-flakes,  as  they  fall,  fall,  fall, 
perpetually,  in  front  of  the  main  body  of  water,  that 
continues  still  unbroken,  though  it  spreads  suddenly 
out  into  a  silvery  sheet  one  hundred  and  thirty  feet 
wide,  and  has  a  dist'nct  swaying  motion,  as  of  a  supple 
grace,  which  yielded  way  a  httle  for  courtesy,  and  not 
of  need.  Again  we  said  of  the  Ah-wah-ne-chee :  "  How 
well  they  told  the  truth  !  "     It  had  not  seemed  before- 


I20  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

hand  as  if  "  Yo-wi-he,"  "  The  Meandering,"  could  be 
a  good  name  for  a  grand  waterfall.  As  near  the  base 
of  the  Fall  as  the  Fall  will  let  it  stand  —  in  fact,  so  near 
that  in  some  winds  half  the  piazza  is  drenched  with 
spray — stands  Mr.  Snow's  little  inn,  "  La  Casa  Nevada." 

How  we  thanked  Murphy  for  having  brought  us  to 
sleep  there. 

"And  now  about  the  moon,  Mr.  Murphy.  When 
will  it  be  up  'i  " 

Murphy  looked  confused. 

"Well,  ye  see  I  hain't  been  keepin'  much  run  on  her 
lately,  an'  the  fact  is,  I'd  forgot,  when  I  spoke  to  you 
about  seein'  the  Falls,  how  late  she  is.  There  won't  be 
no  moonlight  here  to-night  till  nigh  one  o'clock." 

"Never  mind.  Well  sleep  till  one,  and  then  get  up 
and  see  the  moonlight." 

Nobody  can  be  sure,  after  a  half-day's  horseback  rid- 
ing in  Ah-wah-ne,  of  waking  up  at  the  hour  they  resolve 
upon.  It  was  long  after  one  o'clock  that  night  when 
three  shapeless  figures,  rolled  up  in  Mrs.  Snow's  bed- 
blankets  and  comforters,  went  stumbling  about  in  that 
trackless  waste  of  bowlders,  looking  for  the  moon.  The 
ground  was  black,  the  bowlders  were  black,  the  bushes 
were  black.  Blacker  still  loomed  up  the  pine  and  fir- 
forests  on  either  hand  ;  and,  above  them,  actually  glis- 
tening like  walls  of  black  crystal,  towered  the  granite 
peaks.  The  moon  had  shone  her  little  hour  in  the  can- 
yon and  gone  on.  A  faint  light  in  the  dark  sky  to  the 
south,  outlining  more  distinctly  the  jagged  summits  and 
serrated  forest  tops,  told  that  she  was  still  shining  th» 
other  side.  The  Fall  showed  ghastly  whitish  gray, 
the  rapids  all  the  way  down  from  the  base  of  the  Fall 
to  the  bridge  gleamed,  but  did  not  look  white  ;  the  stars 
shone  piercingly ;  and  the  silence  was  terrible,  in  spite 
of  the  roar  of  the  water.  We  felt  our  way  about ;  we 
lost  the  path  again  and  again,  and  hardly  dared  to  move, 
for  fear  of  falling  headlong  down  some  precipice.  The 
air  was  sharply  cold,  but  the  bed-blankets  and  comforters 
were  very   inconvenient.      At   last   somebody   said    to 


P2-WY-ACK  AND    YO-WI-HE,  I2l 

somebody  :  "  Don't  you  think  we  are  fools  ? "  And 
then  we  groped  our  way  back  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  we  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  Fall. 
Since  the  Fall  is  only  seven  hundred  feet  high,  why  it 
need  be  a  four  hours'  cHmb  up  and  down  one  side  of  it 
is  not  evident.  But  the  path  is  steep,  —  partly  through 
woods  of  fir,  cedar,  and  maple  ;  partly  over  sandy  and 
vocky  cliffs,  where  the  trail  is  close  to  the  edge  and  is 
full  of  sharp-cornered  bits  of  granite,  broken  so  fine  it 
looks  like  gray  loaf-sugar  and  is  uncommonly  hard  to 
the  feet.  All  the  way  up  are  wonderful  glimpses  of  the 
Fall.  Seen  from  the  side,  the  long,  slender  shafts  of 
foam  look  more  Hke  snowy  Roman  candles  than  ever. 
And,  as  you  can  often  look  between  them  and  the  main 
sheet  of  the  Fall,  it  is  easy  to  fancy  them  thrown  off 
by  invisible  pyrotechnists  (aquatechnists  .^ )  under  the 
rocks.  The  swaying  of  the  great  avalanche  to  the  right 
is  also  more  clearly  seen  ;  and  the  stream  on  the  left, 
which  from  below  had  looked  merely  like  a  stray  thread 
of  the  Fall,  proves  to  be  almost  another  river,  itself 
leaping  and  falling  in  cascades  of  such  beauty  one  might 
well  have  cHmbed  up  for  their  sake  alone.  As  we  sank 
down  breathless  on  the  rocks  at  the  top  of  the  f'all, 
Murphy  said  :  — 

''  Now  you  must  keep  on  and  take  a  look  into  the 
Little  Yosemite  Valley.     It  is  only  a  few  steps." 

There  was,  then,  a  miniature  Ah-wah-ne.  We  won- 
dered and  pressed  on.  The  "  few  steps  "  were  half  or 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  along  the  river's  sandy  and 
rocky  bank,  through  live  oak  and  manzinita  bushes  and 
over  mats  of  tiny  low  flowers,  growing  as  thickly  as  our 
moss  pinks.  They  were  purple  and  blue  and  yellow 
and  white,  and  I  never  saw  one  of  them  anywhere  else, 
—  not  even  anywhere  else  in  Ah-wah-ne.  They  were 
almost  too  tiny  to  pick.  They  shrivelled  and  became 
nothing  in  one's  fingers,  and  they  seemed  to  have  little 
root,  coming  off  the  dry  rock  surface  at  a  touch  ;  but 
they  made  solid  masses  of  color  under  our  feet. 

Little  Ah-wah-ne  is  like  Ah-wah-ne  the  greater,  —  a 


122  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

brilliant  emerald  meadow,  with  the  Merced  running 
through  it,  shut  in  on  the  east  and  the  west  by  buttressed 
and  pinnacled  walls,  from  two  to  three  thousand  feet 
high,  and  belted  here  and  there  by  dark  fir  fc-ests.  It 
also  has  its  stately  pleasure  domes,  and  streams  run  fast 
and  free  down  its  sides.  It  is  two  thousand  feet  higher 
than  Ah-wah-ne,  and  will  be  as  well  known  and  loved 
some  day. 

From  the  top  of  the  square  granite  rock  off  which  the 
Merced  leaps  in  the  Pi-wy-ack  Fall  runs  a  narrow  staii- 
caseway  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  canyon.  It  is  a 
staircase,  and  not  a  ladder ;  for  the  steps  are  not 
rounds,  and  there  is  a  railing  to  cling  to.  But  it  feels 
like  a  ladder,  and  most  persons  can  get  down  easier  by 
going  backward.  You  land  at  the  mouth  of  a  shallow 
cave,  whose  whole  roof  is  fringed  with  the  dainty  maid- 
en's-hair  fern.  There  is  only  a  narrow  rocky  rim  be- 
tween you  and  the  mad  river,  which  is  foaming  down 
the  canyon.  On  each  side  the  stone  walls  rise  almost 
vertically  and  are  thickly  wooded  with  firs  and  cedars. 
There  you  are,  you  and  the  river,  together  at  the  bottom 
of  this  crevice.  It  is  easy  to  see  what  would  become 
of  you  if  the  river  were  suddenly  to  crowd  a  little. 
Every  pine,  every  cedar,  every  moss  is  ghstening.  The 
bowlders  are  black,  they  are  so  wet.  You  can  look 
orily  a  little  way  down  the  canyon,  for  the  spray  rises 
in  clouds,  which  lap  and  roll  and  spread  like  steam. 
Going  a  few  steps  into  it,  and  looking  back  to  the  Fall, 
you  see  that  just  at  the  upper  edge  it  is  emerald  green, 
for  a  hand's-breadth,  perhaps,  —  no  more  ;  then  it  breaks 
all  at  once,  in  an  instant,  into  millions  of  distinct  drops, 
sparkling,  whirling,  round  as  dew-drops,  falling  in  per- 
petual shower.  Ah  !  the  Ah-wah-ne-chee.  And  ah ! 
the  miracle  of  water  at  its  freest.  Why  should  some 
water  be  stately  and  some  be  frolicful  ?  Yo-wi-he  leaps 
from  as  sharp  an  edge  as  Pi-wy-ack ;  but  Yo-wi-he  is 
full  of  majestic  dignity,  and  Pi-wy-ack  is  radiant  with 
fun. 

Perhaps  Pi-wy-ack  gets  clearer  sight  of  its  own  rain- 


FI-WY-ACJ^  AND    YO-WI-HE.  123 

bows.  No  need  here  to  travel  for  the  magic  rainbow 
end,  where  the  money  lies.  It  follows  you,  it  trips  you 
up,  it  tangles  itself  around  your  feet.  As  I  first  walked 
back  toward  the  Fall,  after  going  as  far  out  in  the  spray 
as  I  dared,  I  accidentally  sHpped  on  a  rolling  stone. 
I  looked  down  quickly,  to  find  a  firmer  footing  ;  and 
I  looked  down  upon  a  broad  band  of  the  most  brilliant 
rainbow.  I  exclaimed  at  the  sight ;  but,  as  I  exclaimed, 
the  rainbow  slipped  to  the  left,  then  as  I  advanced  it 
slowly  retreated,  as  if  luring  me  to  the  Fall.  Suddenly 
as  it  came  it  vanished,  on  the  surface  of  a  wet  bowlder. 
A  step  or  two  back  into  the  spray,  and  it  danced  under 
my  feet ;  a  step  or  two  forward,  and  it  was  gone. 

"These  ain't  any  thing,"  said  Murphy.  "The  place 
where  you  get  the  rainbows  is  down  there,"  pointing 
into  what  looked  like  the  mouth  of  a  steaming  cauldron, 
some  rods  down  the  canyon. 

Through  this  we  must  go  if  we  walked  down  to  Lady 
Franklin's  Rock.  Remembering  the  choked  breath 
and  dripping  hair  of  the  people  we  had  seen  the  day 
before,  we  hesitated ;  but,  remembering  also  the  joy 
which  flashed  in  their  eyes,  we  longed. 

"  It's  pretty  bad  now,"  said  Murphy,  reflectively. 
"Dunno's  I've  ever  taken  anybody  through  when  the 
river  was  higher.  But  you're  pretty  sure-footed.  I 
guess  you'd  git  along  well  enough.  An'  ye  won't  never 
be  sorry  ye  did  it.     I  can  tell  ye  that." 

Never,  indeed!  Only  sorry  that  I  cannot  remember 
it  more  vividly.  Leaping  from  stone  to  stone,  poising 
on  slippery  logs  under  water,  clinging  to  Murphy's  hand 
as  to  a  life-preserver,  blinded,  choked,  stifled,  drenched, 
down  into  that  canyon,  through  that  steaming  spray,  we 
went.  It  was  impossible  to  keep  one's  eyes  open  wide 
for  more  than  half  a  second  at  a  time.  The  spray  drove 
and  pelted,  making  great  gusts  of  wind  by  its  own 
weight  as  it  fell.  It  seemed  to  whirl  round  and  round, 
and  wrap  us,  as  if  trying  to  draw  us  down  into  the  black 
depths.  It  was  desperately  uncomfortable,  and  danger- 
ous, no  doubt.     But  what  of  that  }     We  were  taken  into 


n4  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

the  heart  of  a  carnival  of  light.  Rainbows  rioted  every- 
where, and  we  were  crowding  and  jostling  through  as 
we  could.  The  air  was  full  of  them,  the  ground  danced 
with  them,  they  climbed  and  chased  and  tumbled  mock- 
ingly over  our  heads  and  shoulders,  and  across  our 
faces.  I  nearly  lost  my  footing,  laughing  at  one,  made 
chiefly  of  blue  and  purple,  which  flitted  across  Murphy's 
left  eyebrow.  They  wheeled  and  broke  into  bits  and 
flew  ;  they  swung  and  revolved  and  twined.  When  I 
looked  at  them  in  the  air,  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  a 
gigantic  loom,  on  which  threads  of  rainbow  were  being 
shutded  and  woven  with  magic  swiftness.  When  I 
loolvcd  down  into  the  confusion  of  dark  bowlders  and 
pools  under  our  feet,  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  gigan- 
tic mill-hoppers  spinning  round,  and  grinding  up  purple 
and  blue  and  yellow  and  green  and  red.  I  held  out  my 
hand  and  caught  the  threads  in  the  loom,  —  stopped 
them,  turned  them,  snapped  them.  I  leaned  down  and 
dipped  into  the  purple  and  blue  and  yellow  and  green 
and  red,  and  lifted  them  in  the  hollow  of  my  palm.  I 
do  not  think  anybody  could  have  come  nearer  to  the 
secrets  of  rainbows  if  he  had  sat  in  the  sky  and  watched 
the  first  one  made. 

There  was  nobody  waiting  at  the  Rock  to  laugh  at  us 
as  we  also  came,  running,  bending  over,  parting  the  wet 
bushes  over  our  heads,  panting,  stamping,  dripping,  and 
looking  like  upright  seals  or  walruses. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Murphy,  how  thankful  we  are  to  you  for 
making  us  come  down  that  way  !  "  we  exclaimed. 

"  I  told  ye  ye  wouldn't  never  be  sorry  if  ye  did,"  re- 
plied Murphy,  shaking  out  the  wet  India-rubber  coats 
and  rolling  them  up  in  a  bundle,  which  looked  more  like 
a  seal  than  we  had. 

The  east  meadow  land  of  Ah-wah-ne  looked  lovelier 
than  ever  as  we  rode  slowly  back  through  it  at  sunset. 
Long  shadows  linked  tree  to  tree  in  the  groves  ;  the 
little  brooks  reflected  bits  of  crimson  cloud  and  yellow 
sky  ;  the  azalea  blossoms  seemed  to  expand,  like  white 
wings,  in  the  dimmer  light;  and  the  primroses  were  all 
shut. 


PI-WY-ACK  AND    YO-WI-HE.  125 

Just  before  we  reached  Hutchings's  we  passed  a  tent, 
where  an  adventurous  party  of  pleasure-seekers  were 
camping  out.  A  small  boy,  with  his  head  and  the 
greater  part  of  his  face  tied  up  in  a  blue  veil,  was  piling 
brush  on  a  large  bonfire,  close  to  the  door  of  the  tent. 
"  To  keep  off  the  black  flies  ?  "  called  I,  as  I  rode  by- 
"Yes,  and  skeeters,  too,"  said  he,  lifting  up  roguish 
eyes,  reddened  by  the  smoke. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  said  I,  "  do  you  like  camping  out  ?  " 
"  Yes,  indeed,"  shouted  he.     "  It's    splendid.     We 
killed  six  rattlesnakes  yesterday  ! " 


1^6  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 


PATILLIMA   AND   LOYA. 

OTANDING  one  evening  in  the  little  clearing  before 
O  Hutchings's  Hotel,  and  looking  up  three  thousand 
feet  in  the  air,  to  the  upper  edge  of  Ah-wah-ne's  south- 
ern wall,  I  saw  a  small  point  of  bright  hght.  It  looked 
as  a  star  might  which  had  fallen  and  caught  in  a  tree. 
While  I  was  looking  at  it,  Murphy  passed  by ;  and,  in 
answer  to  my  eager  question  what  the  light  could  be,  he 
replied  :  — 

"  That's  folks  camping  out  on  Glacier  Point.  That's 
where  I'm  going  to  take  you  to-morrow." 

"  Take  us  there  !  "  I  exclaimed.  I  realized  for  the 
first  time  how  I  had  been  overawed  by  Ah-wah-ne.  If 
Murphy  had  said  to  me  that  "folks  were  camping  out" 
in  the  Little  Dipper,  which  lay  calm  and  bright  and  ap- 
parently little  further  off  on  the  sky,  I  should  have 
accepted  the  statement  as  readily.     Murphy  laughed. 

"  Why,  'tain't  much  higher  than  'twas  where  you  came 
down  from  Gentry's.  I'm  goin'  to  take  you  more'n  a 
thousand  feet  higher'n  that,  too.  That  ain't  three 
quarters  o'  the  way  up  to  Sentinel  Dome." 

The  shining  point  held  my  eyes  spell-bound.  I 
watched  it  late  into  the  evening.  Once  I  thought  I  de- 
tected a  slight  flicker  in  it ;  but  with  that  exception  it 
looked  no  more  like  a  watch-fire  than  did  the  other 
countless  outpost  watch-fires  in  the  sky  above  it. 

The  Ah-wah-ne-chee  had  an  odd  name  for  this  jutting 
point.  They  called  it  Er-na-ting  Law-oo-too,  or  Bear- 
skin. But  there  was  evidently  a  man  or  woman  among 
them  who  loved  musical  sounds,  and  rebelled  against 
these  uncouth  words  ;  for  another  name  has  come  down 


PATILLIMA    AND    LOYA.  127 

which  is  melody  itself,  —  "Patillima."  Nobody  knows 
what  it  means  ;  but  I  think  it  means  "  Picture  of  the 
Emerald  Meadow."  Does  it  not  sound  as  if  it  might? 
It  does  when  you  are  looking  over  its  dizzy  edge,  down 
into  the  radiant  Ah-wah-ne. 

We  set  out  at  half-past  six  in  the  morning.  One  can- 
not grow  used  to  the  splenaor  of  Ah-wah-ne  morning  ; 
it  is  the  dew  and  ghtter  and  awaking  of  dawn,  fiiled, ' 
flushed,  and  overflowed  with  the  light  and  the  warmth 
of  noon.  One  fears,  at  first,  that  the  noon  will  arrive 
arid,  hfeless,  and  beggared.  But  the  miracle  is  as  long 
as  the  day.  Until  the  sun  drops  out  of  sight  the  mar 
vellous  shining  and  balm  and  zest  of  the  air  last.  We 
rode  westward  down  the  Valley.  On  our  left  hand  rose 
the  wall ;  dayhght  made  it  look  only  the  more  inaccessi- 
ble. We  rode  on  and  on,  past  the  lower  hotels,  —  Black's 
and  Leydig's. 

"  Oh  !  we  would  rather  stay  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
Valley,  even  if  Hutchings  had  nothing  but  acorns  to 
eat !  "  we  exclaimed,  as  we  more  and  more  lost  sight  of 
the  Great  Fall,  and  looked  at  the  dreary  sand-fields  in 
which  the  other  hotels  stand. 

"  But  how  far  behind  we  are  leaving  Glacier  Point, 
Mr.  Murphy  !  "  said  we.     "  It  must  be  a  mile  back." 

"Yes,"  said  Murphy,  his  eyes  twinkhng.  "The  trail 
begins  a  mile  'n  a  half  west.  Ye  hev'  to  work  round 
considerable  on  sech  a  wall  's  that  to  git  up." 

At  the  entrance  of  the  trail  we  found  a  small  toll- 
Jiouse,  kept  by  a  far-seeing  Irishman,  named  Macaulay, 
who  built  the  trail.  It  cost  $3,000  and  it  took  eleven 
months  of  steady,  hard  labor  to  build  it,  though  it  is 
only  six  or  seven  miles  long.  But  it  is  a  marvellous 
piece  of  work.  It  is  broad,  smooth,  and  well  protected 
on  the  outer  edge,  in  all  dangerous  places,  by  large 
rocks  ;  so  that,  although  it  is  far  the  steepest  trail  out 
of  the  Valley,  zigzagging  back  and  forth  on  a  sheer 
granite  wall,  one  rides  up  it  with  little  alarm  or  giddi- 
ness, and  with  such  a  sense  of  gratitude  to  the  builder 
that  the  dollar's  toll  seems  too  small.     Looking  off  on 


128  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

the  Valley  side,  however,  requires  nerve.  You  can  see 
usually,  one  terrace  below  you,  —  the  one  from  which 
you  have  just  turned,  at  an  acute  angle,  into  the  one  on 
which  you  are.  Sometimes  you  can  just  see  round  the 
last  bend  of  the  one  next  below,  and  see  a  horse's  head 
slowly  climbing  up.  But  this  is  the  most.  Below  that, 
only  tops  of  trees  and  empty  space,  out,  out,  down, 
down,  to  the  very  bottom  of  Ah-wah-ne.  It  is  incredi- 
ble while  you  see  it.  You  seem  to  be  ascending  on  a 
series  of  narrow  shelves,  swung  like  book-shelves,  one 
above  another,  but  from  earth  to  sky.  You  gain  a  few 
feet  at  each  turn  ;  but  you  double  and  double  the  length 
of  the  face  of  the  wall,  more  times  than  you  can  count, 
with  each  turn.  The  bottom  of  the  valley  looks  further 
and  further  away,  and  yet  the  sky  looks  no  nearer. 

On  this  day  a  large  party  was  coming  up  just  below 
us.  Looking  down  on  the  long  line  of  horses,  winding 
and  turning  at  slow  pace,  one  could  think  of  nothing  but 
a  circus  suddenly  tilted  up,  and  the  manoeuvres  going 
on  just  the  same  on  the  wall. 

In  this  party  was  one  man  never  to  be  forgotten.  He 
belonged  to  that  class  of  healthy,  irrepressible,  loud- 
voiced  travellers  whom  no  grandeur  can  awe,  no  senti- 
ment silence.  Malicious  fate  had  set  him  on  a  horse 
named  January.  January  was  lazy  and  slow  of  foot. 
Feeling  along  the  path,  echoing  among  the  rocks,  ris- 
ing, sinking,  doing  every  thing  a  voice  can  do,  except 
die  away,  went  the  stentorian  cry  of  that  man :  — 

"  Git  up,  Jenuerry  !     Git  up,  Jenuerry  !  " 

At  first  we  laughed  at  it.  Then  we  looked  grave. 
Then  we  set  our  teeth.  Then  we  sinned  with  oui 
tongues  as  we  spoke  one  with  another  concerning  that 
man.  All  the  way  from  the  bottom  of  the  wall  to  the 
top  he  shouted,  and  gave  no  rest.  The  self-satisfied, 
jubilant  hilarity  of  his  tone  was  indescribably  exasperat- 
ing. Another  sentence  which  we  heard  from  his  lips, 
however,  had  something  so  redeeming  in  it,  that  I 
treasured  it.  It  was  as  we  reached  the  summit  of 
Glacier  Point. 


PATILLIMA    AND    LOYA.  1 29 

"The  most  romantic  mind  can  here  find  enough  of 
the  picturesque  to  satisfy  its  wildest  desires,"  So  say- 
ing, he  wheeled  his  horse  and  trotted  off,  the  whole 
party  following  swiftly,  saying  to  their  guide  :  "  Come 
on,  Guide  !  We've  gazed  enough."  They  had  been  on 
the  Point  perhaps  five  minutes. 

"  I  do  hate  to  see  folks  do  that  way,"  muttered  Mur- 
phy, looking  contemptuously  after  them. 

"Git  up,  Jenuerry  !  "  "Git  up,  Jenuerry !  "  came 
faintly  back  from  the  depths  of  the  wood,  as  the  party 
plunged  off  to  the  left,  on  the  trail  to  Clark's. 

Three  weeks  later,  by  one  of  those  deliciously  im- 
probable coincidences  which  fate  itself  must  chuckle 
over  when  it  brings  them  about,  it  happened  that  we  saw 
this  irrepressible,  loud-voiced  traveller  again. 

It  was  at  night,  on  the  Central  Pacific  Railroad,  be- 
tween Lake  Donner  and  Truckee.  We  had  been  stand- 
ing on  the  platform  of  the  car  for  half  an  hour,  watching 
the  gleaming  lights  from  the  lake,  where  the  Indians 
were"  fishing  by  torchlight.  When  we  returned  to  our 
seat,  we  found  it  occupied  by  a  sleeping  man,  whose 
head  rested  comfortably  on  our  bags  and  bundles.  It 
was  the  rider  of  January.  As  gently  and  gravely  as  we 
could,  we  roused  him,  and  reclaimed  our  seat.  I  hope 
it  is  counted  unto  us  for  righteousness  that  we  resisted 
the  impulse  to  wake  him  by  the  cry,  "  Git  up,  Jenuerry !  " 

Standing  on  Glacier  Point,  we  saw  why  the  Ah-wah- 
ne-chee  had  called  it  Er-na-ting  Law-00-too.  Its  shape 
is  not  unhke  that  of  a  stretched  bearskin,  the  head  mak- 
ing the  extreme  point  of  the  plateau.  But  we  did  not 
spend  most  of  our  time  on  Glacier  Point  standing.  We 
spent  it  crouched  between  high  rocks,  or  lying  flat  on 
our  breasts,  peering  over  the  edge,  drinking  in  the  love- 
liness of  this  marvellous  miniature  picture  of  Ah-wah- 
ne.  Its  green  was  as  vivid  as  ever.  Its  river  and  its 
lake  shone  like  crystals  ;  but  its  towering  trees  looked 
no  higher  than  mosses.  Great  spaces  of  forest  looked 
a  hand's-breadth  wide.  Mr.  Tamon's  fruit  orchard,  four 
acres  square,  and  containing  five  hundred  trees,  made 
9 


i^O  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

merely  a  tiny  dark  spot  in  the  glowing  green  meadow, 
No  living  thing,  man  or  beast,  could  be  distinguished 
from  that  height.  The  few  buildings  seemed  hardly 
•separate  from  the  gray  rocks  among  which  they  stood. 
There  was  no  motion,  no  sound.  Vivid,  bright,  beauti- 
ful, hke  the  sudden  picture  shown  by  a  wizard's  spell  of 
some  supernatural  land,  there  the  Valley  lay.  We  knew 
that  we  had  come  from  it :  we  knew  that  we  should 
return  to  it ;  but  not  even  this  knowledge  could  make  it 
seem  real  that  we  were  on  a  level  with  the  top  of  the 
Great  Fall  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Valley,  — could 
make  the  Great  Fall  look  any  less  as  if  it  came  from  the 
sky.  We,  also,  seemed  to  be  on  a  field  of  sky.  To-wi- 
he  and  Pi-wy-ack  were  in  full  sight,  looking,  in  the  radi- 
ant distance,  not  so  much  Hke  foaming  waterfalls  as  like 
broad  molten  silver  bands,  by  which  the  dark  spaces  of 
forest  might  be  linked  together  and  welded  to  the  granite 
mountains. 

But  grander  than  the  falls  and  more  wonderful  than 
all  the  other  mountain  walls,  was  the  great  South  Dome, 
Tis-sa-ack.  Seen  from  this  point,  its  expression  is  so 
significant  that  even  its  stupendous  size  is  partially  for- 
gotten. When  half  of  Tis-sa-ack  fell,  the  northeast 
front  was  left  a  sheer,  straight  granite  surface,  nearly 
six  thousand  feet  high.  The  top  is  still  rounded.  No 
human  foot  has  ever  trod  it  or  ever  will.  The  longer  I 
looked  at  it,  this  day,  the  more  its  contour  assumed  the 
likeness  of  a  colossal  visor,  closed.  But  this  pecuhar 
expression  is  seen  from  no  other  point.  Therefore,  I 
think  that  it  was  here  on  PatilHma  that  the  Ah-wah-ne- 
chee  first  crowned  it  "  Goddess  of  the  Valley,"  and  first 
wove  the  legend  of  the  mysterious  maiden,  with  yellow 
hair  and  blue  eyes,  who  sat  upon  its  crest  and  won  the 
love  of  Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah,  and  then  disappeared  for  ever, 
leaving  Tis-sa-ack  to  guard  her  memory  and  her  secret 
together. 

"  I  hate  to  hurry  ye,"  said  Murphy,  after  we  had  been 
a  half  an  hour  here  ;  "but,  if  we're  goin'  to  the  top  oi 
Sentinel  Dome,  we  must  re'ly  be  goin'.  We  hain't  got 
none  too  much  time  now." 


PATILLIMA    AND    LOYA.  131 

A  few  more  minutes  he  gave  us,  touched  by  our  en- 
treaties ;  but  then  he  sternly  followed  us  about  from 
rock  to  rock  with  our  horses,  and  compelled  us  to  mount. 
The  trail  led  down  into  the  woods  again,  along  a  little 
brook-course,  over  beds  of  ferns,  among  which  blue  for- 
get-me-nots waved  as  they  wave  on  the  shores  of  the 
Alban  Lake.  The  magic  Valley,  the  colossal  domes, 
the  radiant  infinite  distances,  all  had  disappeared  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye.  It  might  be  any  other  sweet  forest 
out  of  Ah-wah-ne  through  which  we  were  quietly  riding. 
Just  as  I  was  thinking  how  wonderful  the  transition 
seemed,  and  how  hard  it  was  to  reahze  that  we  were 
really  three  thousand  feet  high  and  riding  on  the  rim  of 
Ah-wah-ne,  Murphy  cantered  up  by  my  side,  and  said, 
in  a  low  tone  :  — 

"Ye  wouldn't  think  now,  would  ye,  when  ye're  in 
these  woods,  that  ye  was  jest  on  the  edge  of  the  Val- 
ley ? "  Was  there  any  shade  of  feeling,  any  point  of 
beauty  which  this  silent  and  half-grim  old  guide  did  not 
know  ? 

"  I  always  think  it's  a  real  rest  after  the  Pint  to  get  in 
here,"  he  continued  ;  "  an'  it  kind  ©'prepares  ye  for  the 
Dome." 

"  An'  here's  a  first-rate  place  to  eat  your  lunch,"  he 
added,  stopping  under  a  big  pine,  whose  scraggy  roots 
thrust  out  hke  wharves  into  the  brook.  The  poor,  hun- 
gry horses  eyed  our  gingerbread,  and  nibbled  disconso- 
lately at  bushes  they  did  not  Hke.  There  was  not  a 
blade  of  grass.  We  fed  them  with  all  that  we  could 
spare,  and  they  took  the  crumbs  from  our  hands  grate- 
fully as  dogs.  Oh  !  the  pitifulness  of  the  Ah-wah-ne 
horses.     It  is  hard  to  bear  the  sight  of  it. 

When  we  left  the  woods,  we  struck  out  into  open, 
rocky  fields.  There  was  hardly  a  vestige  of  a  trail,  to 
our  inexperienced  eyes  ;  but  Murphy  rode  on,  turning 
to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  and  as  we  followed  him  we 
could  see  that  on  either  hand  of  our  way  the  rocks  and 
stones  and  pebbles  and  sand  looked  even  less  hke  a 
road  than  those  under  our  feet.     Before  us  rose  Loya, 


132  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

the  bald,  gray  dome,  the  sentinel ;  on  its  top  one  \ovi 
pine  tree,  and  on  the  side  nearest  us  a  bi^  belt  of  snovo. 

"Ye'U  have  to  walk  up  the  rest  of  the  way,"  said 
Murphy.     "  This  snow  won't  bear  the  horses." 

I  jumped  from  my  horse  just  in  the  edge  of  the  first 
snow-drift ;  and  I  alighted  on  beds  of  tiny,  low  flowers, 
growing  hke  those  I  had  seen  at  the  top  of  the  Nevada 
Fall,  in  thick  mats,  but  with  even  smaller  blossoms,  all 
of  a  delicate  pink  color.  The  snow-drifts  bore  us,  and 
in  some  spots  the  crust  crackled  under  our  feet  as  it 
does  in  the  New  England  winter.  Yet  the  air  was  soft 
and  balmy,  and  almost  at  the  top  of  the  Dome  I  picked 
one  little  yellow  pansy.  The  pine-tree  was  low,  and  so 
bent  it  seemed  to  have  crouched  in  terror.  One  long, 
gnarled  branch  grew  out  for  many  feet  to  the  south  ; 
but  on  the  north  side  all  was  bare  and  scarred.  We 
looked  at  the  snow-drifts,  at  the  tiny  flowers,  at  the  tree 
all  before  we  looked  off  at  the  Sierras.  Only  b^ 
glimpses  at  first  could  we  bear  the  grandeur  of  the  sight. 
We  were  one  thousand  feet  above  the  highest  fall  in 
Ah-wah-ne.  Ah-wah-ne  itself — "-hrunk  to  a  narrow 
abyss,  with  vivid  gleams  of  green  and  silver  at  its  bot- 
tom—  was  only  a  near  hne  in  the  vast  distance  on  which 
we  looked.  Little  Ah-wah-ne  was  an  emerald  spot, 
walled  by  bare  granite  masses.  Mountains  seemed 
piled  on  mountains  ;  and  yet,  beyond  them  and  between 
them,  we  could  see  the  great  valley  stretches  of  the  San 
Joaquin  and  the  Sacramento,  and  to  the  west  a  dim  blue 
line,  which  marked  the  Golden  Gate,  Looking  north- 
ward across  the  Valley,  we  could  see  Mount  Hoffman, 
eleven  thousand  feet  high,  covered  with  snow  ;  and  the 
gigantic  North  Dome,  seeming  almost  to  nestle  under 
its  shadow.  Only  one  thing  except  the  far  Sierras  was 
higher  than  we.  That  was  the  eternally  sealed  mask  of 
Tis-sa-ack. 

The  Sierra  Nevada,  in  its  immortal  white,  lay  only 
thirty  miles  away,  every  peak  sharp-cut  on  the  intense 
blue  of  the  cloudless  sky.  Beyond  Ah-wah-ne  we  saw, 
coming:  from  tht.   north,  the    slender  thread  of   white 


"^ATILLIMA    AISTD    LOYA.  133 

which  makes  Ah-wah-ne's  Great  Fall.  It  seemed  some- 
how to  be  the  one  thing  which  hnked  it  with  the  human 
world,  proved  it  real,  and  made  it  safe. 

"  You  folks  ought  to  go  round  the  whole  Valley  and 
camp  out,"  said  Murphy,  who  had  watched  us  more  and 
more  approvingly.  "It  wouldn't  take  more  than  two 
weeks,  and  there's  lots  of  places  you'd  like  as  well's 
you  do  this." 

"  Mr.  Murphy,  do  you  believe  that  you  are  speaking 
truth  ?  "  said  we,  severely. 

Murphy's  eyes  smiled  a  little,  but  he  said  no  more. 
He  liked  our  loyalty  to  Loya. 

On  our  way  down,  we  stopped  for  a  few  moments  to 
^■est  on  Union  Point,  half  way  between  Glacier  Point 
rfnd  the  Valley.  Here  we  found  an  Irishman  living  in  a 
sort  of  pine-plank  wigwam,  from  the  top  of  which  waved 
the  United  States  flag.  In  a  low  tree,  on  the  very  edge 
of  the  precipice,  I  saw  a  small  bunch  of  flowers.  "  Oh  ! 
somebody  has  lost  a  bouquet,"  I  exclaimed.  But, 
when  I  tried  to  take  it  from  the  crotch  in  the  branch,  I 
found  it  was  firmly  wedged  in  and  confined  by  a  twig 
bent  across  the  opening.  The  Irishman  came  running 
up,  and,  handing  it  to  me,  with  a  broad  smile  on  his 
ugly  red  face,  said  :  — 

*'  It  was  me  tied  it  up.  I  thought  some  leddy  'd  be 
comin'  along  that  'd  hke  it." 

"  I  will  keep  it  always,  in  memory  of  Union  Point  and 
you,"  exclaimed  I. 

Alas  !  long  before  I  reached  the  bottom  of  that  dizzy 
wall  it  had  fallen  from  my  belt.  But,  nevertheless,  it  is 
true  that  I  keep  it  still  in  memory  of  Union  Point  and 
the  lonely,  chivalrous  Irish  gentleman  who  hves  there 
and  looks  down  into  Ah-wah-ne. 


134  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 


POHONO. 

'*]\ /TR.  MURPHY,'  said  I,  <'  do  you  believe  that  the 
iVl  Evil  Spirit  of  the  Bridal  Veil  Fall  would  let  me 
come  near  enough  to  see  it,  this  afternoon  ?  " 

Murphy  stared  at  me  for  a  moment  in  real  alarm, 
thinking  I  had  lost  my  senses.  Then  he  broke  into 
one  of  the  few  laughs  I  ever  heard  from  his  lips,  and 
made  a  reply  which  must  have  seemed  to  a  bystander 
singularly  irrelevant. 

"  That  pesky  mule  hain't  been  seen  since  that  after- 
noon. I  reckon  he's  swum  the  river,  and  as  like  's  not 
he  won't  never  be  heard  from  again.  'Tain't  no  great 
loss,  nuther  ;  though  I  dunno  but  he  did  's  well 's  any 
on  'em  for  a  pack  mule.  I  allers  did  hate  mules,"  con- 
tinued Murphy.  "  I  never  could  see  no  sense  in  'em  ; 
an'  I  rtckon  yoti  don't  ever  want  to  see  another." 

And  Murphy's  eyes  glistened  mischievously  at  the 
reminiscence  of  the  untimely  end  of  my  trip  to  Pohono. 

Why  the  Ah-wah-ne-chee  should  have  given  this  sad 
name  to  the  most  beautiful  fall  in  their  valley,  and  have 
associated  with  it  such  gloomy  legends  and  supersti- 
tions, it  is  not  easy  to  conceive.  The  stream  which 
makes  the  Fall  rises  in  a  small  lake,  on  which  there  is 
said  to  be  a  perpetual  strong  wind  ;  and  there  is  a  tra- 
dition that  once  an  old  woman  who  was  gathering  seeds 
just  above  the  Fall,  fell  into  the  stream  and  was  carried 
over  the  precipice.  But  these  facts  are  not  sufficient  to 
account  for  the  terror  which  the  Indians  felt  at  approach- 
ing the  Fall.  They  always  hurried  by  at  the  top  of 
their  speed  ;  nothing  would  induce  them  to  sleep  near 
it ;  and  even  to  point  toward  it,  as  they  journeyed  up 


P  OHO  NO.  135 

or  down  the  Valley  was  considered  certain  death.  The 
air  of  Ah-wah-ne  is  so  much  rarer  and  more  stimulating 
than  other  air,  life  seems  there  so  much  less  a  thing  of 
the  accredited  five  senses  than  anywhere  else,  that  such 
legends  and  superstitions  take  hold  on  the  imagination 
in  spite  of  one.  I  confess  that,  as  I  rode  toward  Pohono 
that  afternoon,  I  could  not  for  one  moment  forget  that 
we  were  doing  what  an  Ah-wah-ne-chee  would  not  have 
done  for  his  life  ;  and,  musical  as  is  the  word  Pohono, 
is  it  all  a  fancy  that  it  sounds  as  if  it  might  be  the  name 
of  a  malignant  and  treacherous  spirit  ? 

To  reach  Pohono  from  Hutchings's,  you  follow  the 
trail  down  the  Valley  for  some  six  miles  westward. 
Much  of  the  wa}''  it  is  on  the  bank  of  the  Merced,  which 
at  times  spreads  out  foaming  and  shallow,  and  then 
narrows  again  into  a  deep,  dark,  resistless-looking  cur- 
rent. In  these  narrow  depths  the  Merced  has  most 
exquisite  spaces  tinted  with  amber  and  malachite, 
shaded  up  to  black.  As  it  glides  swiftly  along,  the 
serrated  tops  of  the  firs  and  pines  are  reflected  in  these 
shining  surfaces  like  spear-points  and  plumes  of  ranks 
of  soldiery  in  the  shield  and  bosses  of  a  leader  flashing 
by.  And  above  and  before  the  serrated  spear-points 
and  plumes  stand,  silent,  massive,  impregnable  for 
ever,    the   high   buttresses   of  rock. 

The  last  two  miles  of  the  way  lay  near  the  southern 
wall  of  the  Valley,  through  wild  lands,  almost  like  jun- 
gles, —  firs  and  cedars  and  maples  and  Balm  of  Gilead 
and  dog-wood  and  alders  growing  densely  ;  and  on  each 
hand  and  as  far  as  we  could  see  thickets  of  white  azalea, 
Ah-wah-ne  azalea,  — not  azalea  as  New  England  knows 
it,  in  gaunt,  straggling  bushes,  bare-stemmed  nearly  to 
the  top  and  with  flowers  set  somewhat  scantily  on  the 
spreading  ends  of  branches,  — but  azalea  in  thickets,  in 
banks  which  would  be  solidly  leafy  and  green  from  bot- 
tom to  top  if  they  were  not  solidly  snowy,  but  which  are 
so  snowy  that  only  little  points  and  tips  of  green  are 
left  in  sight.  The  blossoms  are  very  large,  tinted  in 
the  centre  with  pale  yellow  and  sometimes  veined  with 


136  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

rose-pink ;  and  I  have  had  branches  on  which  these 
royal  flowers  were  set  in  bunches  two  hand's-breadths 
broad,  like  great  flattened  snowballs. 

Our  first  sight  of  the  Fall  was  at  a  moment  when  the 
wind,  or  the  breath  of  Pohono,  was  lifting  its  whole 
fleecy  mass  and  swinging  it  to  the  west.  "  Can  it  be 
water  ?  "  we  exclaimed.  It  looked  like  a  fluttering  cloud, 
driven  before  the  wind  and  clinging  to  the  rock.  But  in 
a  second  it  swayed  back  again,  with  an  undulating  mo- 
tion no  cloud  could  show.  And  yet  the  fleecy,  filmy 
grace  of  its  shape  seemed  too  ethereal  for  water,  and  the 
sound  seemed,  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  to  come 
from  a  point  much  further  to  the  left.  But,  in  looking 
up  at  it  from  the  base,  —  and  that  is  looking  up  nine 
hundred  feet,  —  all  wonder  at  its  fine-spun,  gossamer 
fleeciness  is  swallowed  up  in  wonder  at  its  zone  of  rain- 
Dow.  At  some  hours  of  the  day,  and  when  the  spray  is 
very  heavy,  there  are  five  or  six  of  these  rainbow  belts 
arching  across  it,  sinking  and  rising  and  swaying  to 
right  and  left  with  it. 

But  I  shall  never  believe  that  this  effect  can  be  so 
beautiful  as  that  we  saw  produced  by  one  broad,  bril- 
liant rainbow,  —  a  perfect  semicircle,  —  its  apex  in  the 
centre  of  the  Fall  and  its  bases  reaching  to  our  very 
feet.  We  sat  on  a  high  bowlder,  some  rods  away  from 
the  Fall ;  and  yet,  when  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  blew 
the  spray  toward  us,  we  were  wet  as  in  a  shower.  The 
bright,  broad  zone  of  color,  arching,  and  yet  seeming  to 
belt  and  confine  the  flowing  lengths  of  fleecy  white,  — 
expanding  and  spanning  them  still  when  they  seemed 
to  seek  to  be  free,  —  deepening,  flashing  with  brighter 
color,  like  renewed  jewels,  and  clasping  closer  when 
they  seemed  to  sink  and  yield,  —  there  was  an  infinite 
tenderness  of  triumphant  passion,  of  mingled  compli- 
ance and  compulsion,  surrender  and  conquest,  in  the 
whole  expression  of  the  movement  of  the  two,  as  they 
swung  and  swayed  and  shone  and  melted  together  in  the 
radiant  air.  Almost  one  felt  as  if  he  knew  more  than 
he  should,  in  watching  them  ;  as  if,  perchance,  they  be- 


POHONO.  137 

lieved  themselves  alone.  As  the  sun  sunk  lower,  the 
rainbow  zone  rose  higher  and  higher  and  grew  narrower 
and  fainter.  The  parting  grew  near,  I  would  not  have 
seen  it.  As  we  rode  slowly  home,  in  the  early  twilight, 
the  pinnacles  and  spires  and  towers  of  rock  on  the 
southern  side  of  the  Valley  were  changed  by  shadows 
into  fantastic  shapes. 

The  serene  and  majestic  face  of  Tu-tock-ah-nu-la 
alone  looked  unaltered.  Neither  light  nor  shade  can 
change  the  benignant,  watchful  look  on  its  grand  and  clear- 
cut  features.  Just  beyond  it  a  rounded  peak  took  sud- 
denly the  shape  of  a  man's  head,  in  a  pointed  monkish 
cowl.  As  we  rode  on,  it  slowly  changed  to  the  outline 
of  a  Bedouin,  half  wrapped  in  a  cloak  and  riding  a  gi- 
gantic camel.  The  long  neck  of  the  camel  and  the 
folds  of  the  cloak  were  perfect ;  and  a  sharp  ledge  line, 
lower  down,  gleamed  like  a  spear,  poised  low  in  the 
rider's  hand.  The  weird  effect  of  such  phantom  shapes 
as  these,  when  seen  three  thousand  feet  up  in  the  air 
and  of  such  great  size,  cannot  be  imagined.  A  little 
further  on,  a  colossal  cat-hke  face  suddenly  looked  out 
from  the  sky.  The  mouth  grinned  and  the  ears  were 
erect.  It  was  rather  the  face  of  a  tiger  than  of  a  cat, 
and  yet  it  had  no  fierceness  of  expression.  In  a  mo- 
ment it  was  gone,  and  we  could  see  that  the  left  ear 
had  been  a  pine  tree.  No  doubt  the  tree  was  two  hun- 
dred feet  high,  but  it  did  not  seem  in  the  least  out  of 
proportion  as  an  ear  on  the  gigantic  head. 

Behind  this  head,  in  the  far  southeast,  we  could  see 
clouds  rest,  six  thousand  feet  above  us.  Its  top  was 
still  rosy  pink  with  the  sunset  glow,  which  had  so  long 
left  the  Valley;  and  below  the  pink  lay  a  broad  snow- 
belt,  silver  white. 

As  Murphy  lifted  me  from  my  horse,  he  looked  at 
me  closely,  and  said,  with  a  Httle  hesitation  of  manner : 

"  Feel  a  httle  stiff,  don't  ye  ? " 

Pride  rebelled  at  the  suggestion;  but  candor  con- 
quered, and  I  replied  : 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Murphy.    I  must  own  that  I  do.    So  many 


138  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

hours  on  horseback  is  a  pretty  severe  thing  to  one  un- 
accustomed to  riding." 

"  I  only  wonder  the  ladies  stand  it  so  well's  they  do," 
said  Murphy  courteously,  detecting,  I  have  no  doubt, 
my  foolish  pride.  "  But,  if  you  was  to  take  a  good 
long  hot-bath  to-night,  you'd  feel  as  good  as  new  to- 
morrow," 

"  A  long  hot-bath,"  exclaimed  I,  remembering  the 
shallow  milk-pan  which  served  me  for  wash-bowl.  "  Are 
any  corners  of  the  Merced  heated  ? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Murphy,  with  perfect  gravity.  "  A 
good  deal  of  the  Merced  is  kept  hot  all  the  time." 

It  was  my  turn  to  stare  now.  Murphy  twinkled,  but 
did  not  speak  till  I  said : 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Murphy  ?  " 

"Jest  what  I  say,"  he  replied,  slowly,  enjoying  my 
bewilderment  "  There's  a  good  deal  of  the  Merced 
kept  hot  all  the  time  in  the  bath-tubs  in  Mr.  Smith's 
saloon.  And,  what's  more,  you  won't  find  any  nicer 
bath-rooms  anywhere,  not  even  in  San  Francisco." 

This  sounded  incredible.  The  fourth  of  the  three 
buildings  in  the  little  plaza  was  a  long,  low,  dark-brown 
house,  with  a  piazza  on  two  sides,  which  I  knew  was 
called  saloon,  and  at  which,  for  that  reason,  I  had  looked 
without  interest.  But  I  was  soon  to  discover  that  it  was 
one  of  the  wonders  of  Ah-wah-ne. 

This  long,  low,  dark-brown  house,  called  the  "  Cos- 
mopohtan  Saloon  "  and  kept  by  a  Mr.  Smith,  consists  of 
nine  rooms.  A  billiard-room,  where  are  two  fine  billiard- 
tables  ;  a  reading-room,  where  are  the  California  news- 
papers, and  a  long  writing-table,  with  stationery  ready 
to  one's  hand ;  a  small  sitting-room,  furnished  with 
sofas  and  comfortable  easy-chairs,  and  intended  exclu- 
sively for  the  use  of  ladies  ;  and  five  small  bath-rooms, 
perfectly  appointed  in  all  respects  and  kept  with  the 
most  marvellous  neatness.  A  small  store-room  at  the 
end  completes  the  list  of  the  rooms. 

The  bath-tubs  shine  ;  the  floors  of  the  bath-rooms 
are  carpeted  ;  Turkish  towels  hang  on  the  racks  ;  soaps. 


FOHONO.  139 

bottles  of  cologne,  and  bay  rum  are  kept  in  each 
room  ;  a  pincushion  stands  under  each  glass,  and  on 
the  pincushion  are  not  only  pins,  but  scissors,  needles, 
thread,  and  buttons  of  several  kinds.  Has  anybody 
ever  seen  public  bath-rooms  of  this  order  ?  And  Mr. 
Smith  mentions,  apologetically,  that  the  button-hooks 
for  which  he  has  sent  have  not  yet  arrived. 

A  tall  and  portly  black  man,  with  that  fine  polish  of 
civility  of  which  the  well-trained  African  servant  is  the 
only  master  on  this  continent,  attends  to  every  require- 
ment of  Mr.  Smith's  customers,  and  exhibits  the  estab- 
lishment many  times  a  day,  with  most  pardonable  pride. 

To  have  seen  the  slates  of  those  billiard  tables  com- 
:ng  down  the  wall  of  Ah-wah-ne  on  the  backs  of  mules 
must  have  been  an  amazing  spectacle.  As  we  looked 
at  their  great  mahogany  frames,  it  seemed  more  and  more 
impossible  every  moment.  But  to  all  our  exclamations 
Mr.  Smith  repHed,  with  great  quietness,  that  there  was 
no  difficulty  in  bringing  any  thing  whatever  into  Ah- 
wah-ne,  and  that  he  intended  to  bring  a  piano  next  year. 
A  mule  can  carry  six  hundred  pounds  weight  of  any 
thing  which  can  be  strapped  on  his  back  ;  and,  once 
strapped  firmly  on  his  back,  the  load  will  be  carried 
with  far  less  jolt  and  jar  than  on  wheels.  Poor  mule  ! 
The  very  Wandering  Jew  of  burden  and  misery  among 
beasts.  .  From  sea  to  sea,  from  continent  to  continent, 
the  spell  of  his  evil  destiny  stretches.  Cairo  or  Ah- 
wah-ne,  it  is  all  one  to  him.  But  I  think  that  never 
even  in  Cairo  could  have  been  seen  a  mule  of  which  so 
little  was  to  be  seen  as  of  the  one  which  came  down  the 
Ah-wah-ne  precipices  under  Mr.  Smith's  billiard-tabiea. 


LAO  BITS   OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOME 


FROM   BIG   OAK   FLAT  TO   MURPHY'S. 

ONLY  one  day's  ride  ;  but  a  ride  so  vivid  with  char- 
acteristic color,  so  picturesque,  so  pathetic  in 
panoramic  narrative  that  I  think  there  can  hardly  be  in 
all  California  any  other  one  day's  journey  more  essen- 
tially Californian. 

Big  Oak  Flat  is  a  little  mining  town,  about  sixty  miles 
from  Stockton.  In  going  from  Ah-wah-ne  to  the  Cala- 
veras Big  Trees,  we  slept  there  ;  but  it  looked  so  deso- 
late, so  apart,  that  I  never  thought  of  its  having  any 
relation  to  the  rest  of  the  world  —  even  to  the  points  of 
compass  —  and  I  remember  it  only  as  the  spot  where 
this  vivid  day's  ride  began. 

First  down-hill  —  down,  down,  through  a  canyon 
whose  sides  were  made  of  bare  overlapping  hills,  grass- 
grown,  and  fringed  and  barred  with  low  bushes.  At 
the  bottom  ran  a  stream  ;  on  all  sides  were  old  mining- 
sluices,  little  green  vine-yards,  piles  of  broken  quartz 
rock.  Then  the  road  ran  through  the  bed  of  Moccasin 
Creek.  The  Creek  had  shrunk,  and  was  licking  along 
abjectly  in  the  sand  on  the  right ;  and  we  rattled  and 
jolted  over  its  pebbly  channel.  The  low  hills  in  the 
distance  were  oddly  shaped,  like  cones  and  triangles, 
and  seemed  to  be  joined  and  fitted  like  pieces  in  a  puzzle, 
to  be  taken  apart.  Red  chasms  and  crevices  marked 
their  sides  ;  tottering  old  stone  chimneys  and  blackened 
hearthstones  showed  where  cabins  had  been  ;  solid 
squares  of  shining  green  vineyard  and  orchard,  mixed, 
surrounded  the  cabins  of  to-day. 

Then  we  came  to  Keith's  Fruit  Garden,  a  bit  of  color 
worth  painting.     A  low  cabin-like  house,  white  and  set 


FROM  BIG   CAR    FLAT  TO  MURPHY'S.     14I 

behind  white  palings.  At  the  gate  tall  branching  olean- 
ders, rosy  with  blossoms  ;  from  the  gate  to  the  door  a 
dark  fig-tree  grove ;  a  broad  piazza,  wreathed  with 
honeysuckles  from  eaves  to  sill,  with  hanging  baskets 
made  of  strung  acorns  and  holding  green  vines,  and 
bird-cages  holding  linnets  and  gold-finches  ;  on  the 
piazza  a  table,  set  with  fruit,  —  pears,  figs,  apricots, 
plums,  apples  ;  and  this  was  only  the  29th  of  June. 
Last  year's  wine,  too,  in  bottles,  with  red  roses  printed 
on  the  labels  ;  and  above  the  table,  nailed  to  the  wall  of 
the  house,  a  cheap  colored  print  of  somebody,  —  Ceres, 
or  Flora,  or  Pomona, — crowned  with  flowers  and  bear- 
ing in  her  hands  a  salver  of  prodigious  fruit.  A  running 
spring  on  one  side  the  house  ;  and  on  the  other  a  gHs- 
tening  yellow  bed  of  straw,  alive  with  downy,  trembling, 
peeping  chickens,  just  out  of  the  shell.  On  both  sides 
and  behind,  stretching  away  so  that  you  peered  down 
into  its  alleys,  lay  the  vineyard,  shaded  dark  by  alternat- 
ing rows  of  fig,  of  peach,  of  apricot,  of  plum,  of  almond 
trees.  Last,  not  least,  and  everywhere  at  once,  a  blue- 
eyed  maid  child,  a  little  older,  perhaps,  than  the  linnets, 
and  the  goldfinches,  which  she  said  she  had  had  "  al- 
ways." Then  more  cabins,  more  vineyards,  and  a  foam- 
ing river  on  our  left,  the  earth  all  red  wherever  it  lay 
open,  and  little  yellow  streams  running  about  like  lost 
babies  ;  great  piles  of  crushed  quartz  rock  here  and 
there,  and  rough  skeleton  mills,  with  the  huge  round 
wheels,  w^hich  had  broken  it  up.  The  hills  grew  more 
yellow,  the  country  grew  more  bald  and  bare  and  sterile. 
Deserted  cabins,  with  vines  running  riot,  and  sluices, 
dry  and  rusty  tin  pans,  left  out  in  the  sun,  told  their 
half  of  the  story  of  the  barren  tract.  Now  we  climbed 
again,  slowly,  steadily,  up  to  a  broad  plateau,  called 
Table  Mountain.  Here  were  huge  oaks,  all  tremulous 
at  top  with  mistletoe,  but  seamed  and  seared  below  like 
old  fossils.  Wheat-fields  came  into  sight  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  their  pale  yellow  looked  cooler  and  whole- 
somer  than  the  orange-tinted  screams  and  the  red  earth. 
In  lonely  places  were  twos  and  threes  of  ragged,  hope- 


142  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

less  Chinamen,  bent  double  over  the  old  worn-out  gullies 
and  hollows,  shaking  the  thin  sands  and  peering  and 
groping  after  a  penny's  worth  of  gold.  They  looked 
Rke  galvanized  mummies,  working  out  some  spell  which 
could  bode  no  good  to  anybody.  Now  and  then  a  house 
and  now  and  then  a  cross-road  made  the  solitudes  seem 
less  remote,  and  gave  a  strange,  sudden  reminder  of 
civilization  and  humanity.  But  in  a  moment  we  had 
plunged  again  into  thickets  and  tangles  of  pines  and 
manzanita ;  then  out  upon  desolate,  frightful,  stony 
fields,  where  crowds  of  limestone  rocks  reared  them- 
selves up  like  hobgoblins  and  gnomes.  And  so,  before 
noon,  we  came  to  Sonora. 

Sonora's  main  street  is  narrow,  and  walled  thick  with 
green  locust-trees.  The  buildings  are  chiefly  half  shop 
and  half  house,  excepting  those  which  are  all  saloon. 
They  are  wooden  and  low  and  of  uneven  heights  ;  the 
shop  fronts  are  wide  open,  being  made  of  two  huge 
doors.  This  gives  the  street  the  look  of  an  arbor  of 
cluttered  and  miscellaneous  wares.  In  the  centre  of 
the  busiest  part  of  the  street,  we  came  upon  hydraulic 
mining  in  one  of  the  cellars,  the  hose  playing  away  as 
for  a  fire,  and  the  yellow  bank  crumbling  and  melting 
into  the  sluices. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  said  we. 

"  Oh  !  the  man  that  lived  there  found  gold  in  his 
cellar.  So  he  moved  off  his  house  and  went  to  mining, 
and  he's  taken  out  $10,000  already,"  repHed  the  Street. 

*'  But  are  you  all  living  over  gold  mines  ?  " 

"  Shouldn't  wonder.  But  mining  isn't  such  lively 
work  as  it  used  to  be.  It's  dull  times  in  Sonora  now. 
Twenty-dollar  pieces  used  to  chink  on  this  street  from 
morning  to  night."     And  the  Street  sighed. 

Next  to  Sonora  comes  Columbia,  only  four  miles  off. 
I  think  there  is  not  in  sight  on  either  hand  of  that  four 
miles  of  road,  a  half-acre  of  land  which  is  not  tunnelled, 
trenched,  scooped,  torn  to  pieces,  and  turned  bottom 
side  up  by  mining.  The  wildest  confusion  of  bowlders 
ever  seen  on  a  mountain-top  looks  like  the  orderly  pre- 


FROM  BIG   OAK  J^LAT  TO  MURPHY'S.     143 

cision  of  a  cabinet  by  side  of  these  deserted  mining 
claims.  The  rocks  are  worn  and  fretted  by  the  old 
action  of  water  into  ghastly  and  grotesque  shapes,  which 
add  an  element  of  weird  horror  to  the  picture.  They 
look  like  giant  skeletons,  like  idols,  hke  petrified  mon- 
sters, which  might  come  to  life  and  hold  hideous  carni- 
val in  their  burial-place.  A  httle  way  out  of  Sonora 
stands  a  small  church,  on  a  high  hill,  surrounded  by  a 
graveyard.  The  land  on  one  side  of  it  has  been  mined 
away,  until  the  hill  is  left  standing  Hke  a  seashore  cliff, 
steep,  abrupt,  many  feet  above  the  yawning,  rocky 
chasms  below.  The  little  paling  of  the  graveyard  and 
the  white  gravestones  nearest  it  look  as  if  at  any  minute 
they  might  topple  off,  by  the  caving  in  of  the  bank, — 
the  greed  of  gold  has  so  grudged  even  to  the  dead  the 
few  inches  they  need. 

Columbia  houses  are  like  cabins,  bowered  in  vines 
and  flowers ;  and  Columbia's  streets  hterally  run  with 
gold.  As  we  drove  through,  on  this  29th  of  June,  we 
saw  dozens  of  small  boys  panning  out  gold  in  the  little 
streams  which  ran  close  to  their  fathers'  gates. 
"  For  Fourth  of  July  ?  "  called  we. 
"  Yes,  to  see  the  circus,"  shouted  the  infant  gold- 
seekers. 

"  How  much  can  you  get  a  day  ?  "  I  said. 
^^  He  got  twenty-five  cents  yesterday,"   said   a  wist- 
ful little   fellow,  pointing  to   the  great   man  of  their 
exchange. 

A  httle  further  on  we  met  a  squad  of  the  dismal 
Chinamen  again,  walking  with  their  shovels,  pans,  and 
pickaxes  slung  in  a  clattering  bundle  on  their  backs. 

After  Columbia  came  a  gentler  and  greener  country, 
woods  again,  and  a  glorious  canyon,  down  which  we 
zigzagged  and  whirled  round  ox-bow  bends,  and  came 
to  the  swift,  coffee-colored  Stanislaus  River  at  bottom. 
Over  this,  in  a  swinging  ferry-boat,  made  fast  to  an  iron 
cable,  and  then  up  the  other  side  of  the  canyon.  The 
hills  were  covered  densely  with  the  low  greasewood 
bushes,  which,  now  that  the  white  flowers  .vere  fallen^ 


144  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

had  taken  on  a  most  exquisite  tint  of  brilliant  5'ellow- 
brown.  Once  out  of  the  canyon,  we  bore  away  across 
stretch  after  stretch  of  wilderness  again.  Woods, 
woods,  woods,  or  else  bare  rocky  fields  ;  now  and  then 
a  dismal  little  village,  which  once  had  a  hope  of  gold, 
but  now  has  lost  it,  and  found  nothing  else  in  its  stead. 
Pitiful  faces  meet  you  at  each  turn  in  these  luckless  little 
mining  towns,  —  faces  of  women  hardened  and  weary 
and  lifeless;  faces  of  little  children  sick  and  without 
joy  ;  faces  of  men  dull,  inert,  discouraged,  and  brutal. 
It  is  hard  to  fancy  what  will  become  of  them. 

As  we  drove  up  to  the  inn  at  "  Murphy's,"  I  could 
have  fancied  myself  in  some  little  Italian  village.  The 
square  stone  walls  were  gray,  and  in  spots  grimed  with 
mould  ;  the  windows  were  sunk  deep,  like  embrasures, 
and  heavy  black  shutters  flapped  and  creaked.  Bright 
green  locust-trees  shaded  it,  hens  and  chickens  were 
running  about,  and  the  padrona  and  several  servants 
stood  on  the  doorstep,  smiling.  Murphy's  one  narrow, 
long  street  is  picturesquely  dismal,  —  old  wooden  side- 
walks, loose,  broken  in  in  places,  with  grass  growing  up 
in  the  holes  ;  deserted  houses,  with  the  ridge-pole  sink- 
ing low  in  the  middle  and  the  chimney-bricks  lying 
strewn  about ;  unused  warerooms,  with  iron  shutters  on 
the  outside,  barred  tight  and  crossbarred  by  cobwebs  ; 
back  yards  and  front  yards,  here  and  there,  all  gullied 
and  piled  with  heaps  of  rock,  where  gold  used  to  be. 
One  we  found  surrounded  by  a  high  fence,  the  gate 
tight  locked  with  a  padlock,  and  the  pickaxes  and  pans 
lying  where  they  were  dropped  at  sunset.  This  within 
stone's  throw  of  an  apple-stand  and  a  meeting-house. 
Just  beyond  the  street  limits,  in  all  directions,  are  fields 
of  mining  claims, — some  deserted,  some  still  being 
worked.  The  rocks  are  hollowed  and  scooped,  and 
thrown  up  in  even  wilder  and  more  fantastic  shapes  than 
those  we  had  seen  before.  By  moonlight  they  were  ter- 
rible. A  few  years  ago  Murphy's  was  alert  and  gay. 
Gold  came  free,  and  no  man  stopped  to  ask  how  soon 
the    rocky  treasure-house  would  be    empty.      To-day 


FROM  BIG   OAK  FLAT  TO  MURPHTS.      145 

Murphy's  would  hardly  exist  except  that  it  is  on  one  of 
the  routes  to  the  Calaveras  Big  Trees,  and  most  of  the 
Big  Tree  pilgrims  by  this  route  sleep  two  nights  at 
Murphy's. 

For  this  we  too  had  come  to  Murphy's.  And  for  this 
we  too  rose  at  five  in  the  morning,  and  set  out  to  climb 
four  hours  up-hill.  Twenty-three  hundred  feet  we  were 
to  rise  in  sixteen  miles.  In  what  good  faith  we  did  it. 
And  how  sharp  set  were  we,  mile  by  mile,  for  the  first 
sight  of  the  first  Big  Tree.  On  either  side  forests 
stretched,  almost  unbroken  for  much  of  the  way. 
Scarcely  a  sign  of  human  habitation  is  to  be  seen  along 
the  road.  We  grew  impatient,  in  spite  of  ourselves, 
and  weary  of  the  monotonous  aisles  of  pines.  At  last 
we  came  out  on  higher  ground  ;  distant  mountains  were 
revealed, — the  Coast  Range  in  the  west  and  to  the 
north  and  east  the  shining  snow-points  of  the  high 
Sierras. 

'•  Almost  there  now,"  said  the  driver  ;  and  as  he 
spoke  we  saw  the  gleam  of  the  white  house  among  the 
trees.  Looking  eagerly  to  right,  to  left,  we  sprang  out 
on  the  piazza.  Trees  on  all  hands,  majestic,  straight, 
but  just  such  trees  as  we  had  been  living  with  for  weeks, 
it  seemed  to  us.  What  did  it  mean  ?  "  Where  are  the 
Big  Trees  ?  "  we  exclaimed  to  bystanders.  Bystanders 
looked  astounded.  We  seemed  such  pigmies,  I  sup- 
pose, and  our  question  so  hugely  impudent. 

"  There  are  a  few  of  them,"  curtly  replied  some  one, 
with  a  dignified  wave  of  his  hand  to  the  left. 

We  looked,  we  gazed  ;  earnestly,  honestly.  We  said 
no  more,  but  we  walked  off  at  a  brisk  pace  to  the  giants 
nearer  at  hand.  We  followed  a  sandy  road,  which 
wound  in  and  out  among  the  trees.  Pine  shingles,  with 
names  of  great  and  little  men  printed  on  them,  were 
nailed  to  the  trunks, — history,  poetry,  politics,  press, 
and  pulpit,  all  jumbled  together.  Bryant,  and  Grant, 
and  Clay,  and  Cobden  ;  Henry  Ward  Beecher  and 
Uncle  Tom;  Dr.  Kane  and  James  King,  Esq., — who- 
ever he  may  be,  — Vermont  and  Florence  Nightingale  and 


146  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

Elihu  Burritt.  Could  any  thing  be  droller  than  for  such 
trees,  after  their  centuries  of  royal  solitude,  to  find  them- 
selves with  labels  of  pine  shingle  tacked  to  their  sides, 
calling  them  by  the  names  of  these  men  of  a  day  ?  Per- 
haps, except  for  the  shingles,  the  trees  might  sooner 
have  seemed  big  ;  but  it  took  long  to  forget  those.  The 
would-be  poetical  names  were  worst  of  all. 

"Mother  of  the  Forest"  (set  down  on  the  catalogue 
as  being  "without  bark"),  "Three  Graces,"  and 
"  Beauty  of  the  Forest,"  —  these  were  the  names  that 
stirred  most  fury  in  our  souls.  It  seems  strange  that 
neither  satire  nor  resentment  has  taken  shape  in  this 
matter.  Many  hearts  must  have  been  touched  to  the 
quick  by  the  sight  of  the  poor  trees,  by  the  spectacle  of 
might  so  dishonored. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  shingles,  the  trees  were  grand. 
The  inevitable  underestimate  at  first  sight  wears  off, 
and  the  reaction  from  it  is  intense.  When  it  takes 
twenty-four  steps  to  climb  up  a  ladder  set  against  the 
side  of  a  fallen  tree,  and  your  head  swims  a  little  as  you 
reach  the  top,  with  nothing  to  hold  on  by  ;  when  you  sit 
in  a  pavihon  built  on  and  only  just  enclosing  a  tree- 
stump  over  nine  yards  in  diameter,  on  which  thirty-two 
people  have  danced  at  a  time  ;  when  you  walk  into  a 
fallen  tree,  which  is  half-buried  in  earth,  and  walk  on 
and  on  under  its  curving  roof,  and  see  apertures  in  it  so 
high  above  your  head  that  you  cannot  reach  the  grasses 
which  have  taken  root  in  the  crumbling  bark  around 
their  edges  ;  when,  as  you  walk  here,  you  see,  a  hun- 
dred feet  away,  a  tall  man  coming  toward  you,  he  also 
finding  the  brown  ceilinged  chamber  high  enough ; 
when  you  see  a  horse,  carrying  a  rider,  gallop  through 
the  same  mysterious  archway,  wonder  does  not  long 
delay ;  and  when,  later,  walking  on  and  on  in  the  forest, 
you  find  many  trees  as  large  in  circumference  as  these 
standing  bright  and  full-leaved  from  two  to  three  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  feet  high,  wonder  becomes  akin  to 
veneration. 

But  many  things  in  Nature  move  us  more  than  size; 


FROM  BIG   OAK  FLAT  TO  MURPHY'S.     I47 

wonder,  even  tinged  with  veneration,  is  shorter-lived 
than  tenderness.  The  most  vivid  memory  I  brought 
away  from  the  Calaveras  Grove  is  of  a  tiny  little  striped 
squirrel,  which  had  fallen  from  its  nest,  high  up  in  one 
of  the  largest  trees.  The  little  thing  could  not  have 
been  many  days  old ;  its  eyes  were  scarcely  open  and  it 
could  not  crawl.  It  lay  on  the  ground,  uttering  the 
most  piteous  cries.  We  waited  and  watched  a  long 
time,  hoping  that  the  mother  might  come  to  its  help. 
Then  we  made  a  soft  bed  of  leaves  and  moss  in  a  deep 
cleft  of  one  of  the  roots,  and  hid  it  from  sight.  After 
we  had  made  the  circuit  of  the  grove,  we  returned  to 
this  tree,  hoping  that  the  little  creature  would  either 
have  died  or  have  been  found  by  its  parents.  It  still 
lay  there,  moaning ;  but  the  moans  were  feebler.  It 
was  strangely  hard  to  come  away,  and  leave  the  helpless 
dying  thing  ;  but  I  think  it  could  not  have  lived  long, 
and  I  never  think  of  it  without  remembering  a  good 
word  said  somewhere  in  our  Bible  about  that  feeble  folk, 
the  conies,  for  whom  the  Lord  cares. 


I4J5  BITS  OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOME 


LAKE   TAHOE. 

A  LAKE  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  thirty 
miles  long,  sixteen  miles  wide,  surrounded  by 
mountains  from  which  no  summer  melts  all  the  snow, 
walled  round  the  edges  by  firs  and  pines,  set  at  the  rim 
in  a  Mosaic  of  polished  pebbles  and  brilliant  flowers,  — 
is  not  that  a  lake  to  be  loved  ?  And  I  have  not  yet  said 
a  word  of  its  water,  which  is  so  blue  that  it  seems  im- 
possible it  should  not  stain,  and  so  clear  that  one  can 
see  fishes  swimming  more  than  a  hundred  feet  below  his 
boat,  and  so  cold  that  ice  would  not  cool  it.  For  its 
water  alone  it  could  be  well  loved,  if  it  lay  in  a  desert 
It  has  had  some  hard  fortune  in  way  of  names.  A  Ger- 
man once  named  it  Lake  Bompland,  and  a  militia  gen- 
eral named  it,  after  a  governor,  Lake  Bigler.  But  ten 
years  ago,  by  some  marvellous  good  luck  (I  wish  we 
knew  whom  to  thank  for  it),  it  was  rechristened  by  the 
old  Indian  name,  Tahoe,  pronounced  by  the  Indians 
Tah-oo,  and  meaning  "  Big  Water." 

To  find  Lake  Tahoe,  one  must  journey  on  the  Overland 
Railroad  six  days  west  from  New  York  or  one  day  east 
from  San  Francisco,  and  leave  the  cars  at  Truckee. 
Truckee  is  as  odd  as  its  name.  It  looks  so  much  as  it 
sounds  that  one  wonders  if  it  could  have  been  named 
beforehand.  Truckee  has  one  street.  It  is  a  broad, 
rocky,  dusty  field.  The  railroad  track  runs  through  it, 
so  close  to  the  houses  on  one  side  that  you  step  from 
the  cars  to  the  hotel  piazza.  From  the  railroad  side  to 
the  other  plank,  walks  are  laid  at  intervals  :  but  there  is 
no  road,  no  semblance  of  a  road,  up  and  down  the  field. 
Enormous  bowlders  lie  here  and  there,  and  you  drive 


1.AKE    TAHOE.  149 

around  them.  Poor  Truckee  has  had  no  time  to  blast 
rock  on  its  highway,  for  it  has  been  three  times  burnt 
out  in  nine  months.  Opposite  the  hotel  is  a  long  line 
of  low  wooden  shops,  with  a  row  of  slender  evergreen 
trees  in  front,  —  trees  cut  down  and  stuck  into  the 
ground,  not  planted.  Beyond  these  comes  the  Chinese 
quarter,  —  another  long  row  of  low,  huddled,  rickety 
wooden  buildings,  half  of  them  black  from  the  smoke  of 
the  fires,  and  all  of  them  swarming  with  shiny-faced 
Chinese  children.  Newly  cleared  hill-slopes,  hideous 
with  blackened  stumps,  come  down  to  the  very  backs  01 
the  houses.  Truckee  sells  timber,  and  cuts  down  the 
nearest  first.  If  anybody  had  had  sense,  the  near  slopes 
would  have  been  left  covered  with  trees,  and  Truckee 
would  have  had  comfort  and  beauty  ;  but  now  it  is 
stripped,  shelterless,  dusty,  as  if  it  had  been  set  down 
in  a  rocky  Sahara. 

Blackberries  and  strawberries  and  apricots  and 
peaches  and  pears  and  apples  can  be  bought  on  the  side- 
walk in  Truckee  early  in  July.  You  will  be  invited  to 
an  Indian-corn  dance,  too,  if  you  can  read  the  Indian  lan- 
guage ;  for  you  will  meet  the  invitations  on  all  the 
corners.  They  are  painted  in  red  and  white  and  black 
on  the  foreheads  and  cheekbones  of  Indian  men  and 
women.  We  supposed,  at  first,  in  our  ignorance,  that 
this  was  the  usual  style  of  promenade  paint  on  the  noble 
savage  of  these  latitudes ;  but  it  was  explained  to  us 
that  it  was  their  method  of  circulating  the  news  and  ex- 
tending the  invitations  of  a  great  Festival,  the  ccrn- 
daiice,  which  was  to  take  place  a  few  weeks  later.  What 
a  delicious  device  of  taciturnity.  There  they  stood, — 
men,  women,  wrapped  in  blankets,  proud,  impassive, 
speechless,  —  looking  at  each  other,  and  us,  and  the 
street,  their  sharp,  fathomless  eyes  gleaming  out  from 
among  the  ghstening  scarlet  and  white  hieroglyphics  on 
their  faces.  "  Request  the  pleasure  of,"  etc.,  looks  un- 
commonly queer  done  in  Indian  red  over  an  eyebrow. 
But  one  needs  to  think  before  calling  it  silly  or  barbar- 
ous.    It  has  its  merits:  no  words  lost,  for  one  thing; 


150  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

economical,  too,  for  another;  and  no  replies  expected, 
best  of  all,  — though  one  could  not  be  sure,  perhaps,  of 
this  last.  I  do  not  know  that  a  few  days  later  the 
whole  tribe  might  not  have  been  seen  painted  in  new 
colors  and  shapes,  to  signify  their  intended  absence  or 
presence. 

The  road  from  Truckee  to  Lake  Tahoe  lies  along  the 
bank  of  the  Truckee  River,  a  small  stream,  which 
comes  foaming  and  roaring  down  from  the  High  Sier- 
ras, in  a  swift  fashion  for  a  carrier  of  wood.  But  wood 
it  carries  —  all  it  can  lift  and  spin  and  whirl  —  every 
day  ;  and  in  many  places  we  saw  it  choked  full  of  the 
black,  shiny  logs,  and  groups  of  men  ("log-drivers"), 
up  to  their  waists  in  the  water,  trying  to  separate  them 
and  hurry  them  along.  We  saw  also  a  "  log-shoot," 
which  is  a  fine  sight  of  a  sunny  morning,  —  a  yellow, 
glistening  line  from  the  top  of  the  mountain  straight 
to  the  river's  edge.  This  line  is  made  of  two  split  logs, 
laid  lengthwise,  close,  smooth  side  up.  Down  this,  logs 
are  sent  sliding  into  the  river.  Before  the  log  is  half 
way  down  the  planks  beneath  it  are  smoking,  blue  and 
fast,  from  the  friction.  Sometimes  they  take  fire.  As 
the  log  hits  the  river-edge,  it  often  somersaults  twice, 
and  leaps  with  such  force  that  the  water  is  thrown  up  in 
a  sparkling  sheaf  higher  than  the  tops  of  the  trees. 
Four  or  five  times  over,  taking  less  than  half  a  minute 
a  time,  we  saw  this  swift,  craunching  slide,  pale  smoke- 
wreath,  and  glittering  water-spout. 

And  then  we  came  to  a  foundling  asylum  for  trout. 
We  went  in,  and  the  proprietor  set  all  the  infants  fight- 
ing for  food  at  once,  to  amuse  us.  Their  dormitories 
were  cool  and  well  ventilated,  certainly,  consisting  of  a 
series  of  unroofed  tanks  :  and  the  chopped  liver  on 
which  they  are  fed  must  have  been  of  the  very  best  qual- 
ity, for  they  scrambled  for  it  faster  than  beggars  ever 
scrambled  for  pennies.  The  youngest  of  all  were  put 
in  shallow  covered  boxes,  with  gravelled  bottoms  and 
only  a  little  water.  Those  that  were  but  four  days  old 
were  droll.     There  were  millions  of  them  in  a  box. 


LAKE    TAHOE.  15 1 

They  looked  like  white  currants,  with  two  black  beads 
for  eyes  and  a  needle-point  for  tail.  The  man  said 
they  would  be  trout  presently  and  weigh  two  or  three 

founds  apiece.  It  seemed  unlikelier  than  any  thing 
ever  heard. 

You  are  three  hours  going  from  Truckee  to  Lake 
Tahoe,  and  it  is  so  steadily  up  hill  that  you  begin  to 
wonder  long  before  you  get  there  why  the  lake  does 
not  run  over  and  down.  At  last  you  turn  a  sharp 
corner,  and  there  lies  the  lake,  only  a  few  rods  off". 
What  color  you  see  it  depends  on  the  hour  and  the  day. 
It  has  its  own  calendars  —  its  spring-times  and  winters, 
its  dawns  and  darknesses  — incalculable  by  almanacs. 

It  is  apt  to  begin  by  gray,  early  in  the  morning  ;  then 
the  mountains  around  it  look  like  pale  onyx  and  the 
sky,  too,  is  gray.  Then  it  changes  to  clouded  sapphire, 
and  the  mountains  change  with  it  also  to  a  pale,  opaque 
blue  ;  then  to  brilliant,  translucent,  glittering  sapphire, 
when  the  right  sort  of  sun  reaches  just  the  right  height. 
And,  when  there  is  this  peculiar  translucent  sapphire 
blue  in  the  water  then  the  mountains  are  of  opal  tints, 
shifting  and  changing,  as  if  heat  were  at  work  in  their 
centres. 

Then,  if  at  sunset  the  mountains  take  on  rose  or 
ruby  tints,  the  water  becomes  like  a  sea  of  pink  pearl 
molten  together  with  silver  ;  and  as  the  twilight  wind 
cools  it  it  changes  to  blue,  to  green,  to  steel-gray,  to 
black.  This  is  merely  one  of  its  calendars  of  color ; 
one  which  I  happened  to  write  down  on  a  day  when, 
lying  all  day  by  a  second-story  window,  I  saw  no  inter- 
val of  foreground  at  all,  —  only  the  sky  arching  down 
to  the  lake,  and  the  lake  reaching,  as  it  seemed,  up  to 
my  window-sill.  I  felt  as  one  might  who  sailed  in  a 
hollow  globe  of  sapphire  or  floated  in  a  soap-bubble. 

There  are  two  tiny  steamboats  on  Lake  Tahoe. 
Every  morning  one  lies  at  the  little  wharf  opposite  the 
hotel,  and  rings  its  miniature  bell  and  whistles  its 
gentle  whistle;  but  it  will  wait  while  the  head  waiter 
pu's  I'p  rnor"  lunch,  or  the  bridegroom  runs  back  for 


152  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOMR. 

the  forgotten  shawl.  The  twenty  or  thirty  people  who 
are  going  off  in  her  all  know  this,  and  nobody  hurries. 
There  are  several  small  villages  on  the  shore  of  the  lake  ; 
there  are  some  Hot  Springs ;  there  is  Cornehan  Beach, 
where  tiny  red  and  yellow  cornelians  can  be  picked  up  by 
handfuls  ;  there  is  Emerald  Bay,  where  are  sharp  chffs 
many  hundred  feet  high,  and  water  of  a  miraculous 
green  color.  It  takes  all  day  to  go  anywhere  and  come 
back  in  one  of  these  boats,  for  the  engines  are  only  of 
one  tea-kettle  power.  In  fact,  as  the  little  craft  puffs 
and  wriggles  out  from  shore,  it  looks  as  if  it  had  the 
Quangle  Wangle  for  steersman,  and  as  if  Lionel  and 
his  companions  might  come  back  on  the  rhinoceros's 
back.  The  row-boats  are  better  ;  and,  if  you  take  a 
row-boat,  Fred  is  the  man  to  row  you.  Everybody  at 
Lake  Tahoe  knows  Fred.  He  it  was  who  rowed  us  out 
to  one  Sunday  service  we  shall  not  forget.  It  was  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Summer  afternoons  on  Lake 
Tahoe  are  warm  till  sunset — never  has  the  mercury 
been  known  to  rise  above  75  degrees  in  this  magic  air ; 
and  it  rarely,  during  July  and  August,  falls  below  62 
degrees.  The  delight  and  the  stimulus  of  this  steady, 
clear,  crisp  air,  snow-cooled,  sun-warmed,  water-fed, 
cannot  be  told.  Day  after  day  of  warm  sunlight,  such 
as  only  rainless  skies  can  show ;  and  night  after  night 
of  the  sleep  which  only  cool  nights  can  give  ;  almost  it 
seems  to  me  that  miracles  of  cure  might  be  wrought 
on  these  shores. 

The  Lake  Tahoe  House  (one  of  the  very  best  in  all 
Cahfornia.)  stands  in  a  small  clearing  on  the  shore  of 
the  lake.  A  minute-and-a-half's  walk,  chiefly  down- 
stairs, and  you  are  at  the  water's  edge.  For  a  few 
rods  up  and  down  the  lake  the  trees  are  felled ; 
there  are  also  four  or  five  small  houses  ;  but,  once 
past  these,  you  glide  instantly  into  shadow  of  the  firs 
and  pines,  and  can  beHeve  that  you  are  the  first  to 
sail  by.  On  this  Sunday  we  rowed  to  the  south,  keep- 
ing close  into  the  shore.  Two  miles  below  the  hotel 
we  had  seen  a  picturesque   lumber-mill,   standing  in 


LAKE    TAHOE.  153 

another  small  clearing,  which  from  the  lake  looked 
like  a  flower-garden,  so  gay  was  it  with  solid  reds  and 
blues. 

Searching  for  this,  we  rowed  slowly  along,  —  now 
coming  so  near  the  shore  that  we  could  reach  the 
brakes  and  mosses,  now  striking  out  far  into  the  lake 
to  go  around  a  fallen  tree,  which  walled  our  path  as 
effectually  as  if  we  had  been  on  foot  in  the  woods.  As 
we  drew  near  the  mill,  and  saw  the  gay  colors  more 
distinctly,  we  looked  at  each  other  in  speechless  won- 
der. We  had  seen  fields  yellow  with  the  eschscholtzia, 
and  spots  so  blue  with  blue-larkspur  that  we  had  taken 
them  for  ponds  ;  but  never  had  we  seen  such  radiance  of 
color  as  this.  Spaces  six  feet,  ten  feet,  twelve  feet  square, 
set  thick  with  the  scarlet-painted  cups  growing  and  flow- 
ering in  such  fulness  it  hardly  looked  Hke  itself,  and  fully 
justified  its  common  name  in  California,  —  "  Painter's 
Brush."  Mingling  with  this,  also,  in  great  solid  spaces, 
a  light  blue  forget-me-not,  flowering  in  full  heads  ;  two 
other  blue  flowers  grew  in  great  profusion  all  about ; 
one  grew  in  low  clumps.  The  flowers  were  set  on  the 
stem  like  the  foxglove  flowers,  but  three  rows  thick, 
making  a  wide  spike,  which  on  its  front  gleamed  like  a 
row  of  blue  steel  tube-mouths,  so  deep  was  the  color, 
so  lustrous  the  surface.  What  would  we  have  given 
to  have  known  or  to  have  been  able  to  find  out  the 
name  of  this  superb  flower.  The  other  blue  flower  was 
like  a  snap-dragon  and  grew  on  slenderer  stems.  Then 
there  was  a  royal  pennyroyal,  with  white  flowers  in 
heads  hke  clovers  ;  and  a  graceful  branching  plant,  full 
of  small  trumpet-shaped  blossoms,  of  a  vivid  cherry 
red.  We  gathered  them  not  by  handfuls  or  by  bunches, 
but  by  armtuls,  and  staggered  back  into  the  boat,  literally 
loaded  down. 

Then  we  said  to  Fred  :  — 

"  Now,  row  us  back  to  that  thicker  part  of  the  wood 
where  we  saw  those  fine  green  ferns." 

Jumping  out  to  get  the  ferns,  and  going  a  few  steps 
into  the  wood,  we  came  upon  a  still  more  wonderful 


154  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

spot.  The  water  of  the  Lake  had  made  up  in  the 
spring  into  a  small  hollow  among  the  bushes  ;  this  was 
now  left  green  as  a  river  meadow.  It  was  not  more 
than  ten  or  twelve  feet  either  way,  and  the  grass  in  the 
centre  was  wet  and  rank.  On  its  outer  edges  grew  red 
lihes,  scarlet  columbines,  high  green  brakes,  and  wil- 
lows ;  but  these  were  not  its  glory.  Tall,  stately, 
white  as  Annunciation  lilies,  there  stood  forty  or  fifty 
spikes  of  a  flower  we  had  never  seen.  It  was  from 
two  to  five  feet  high.  The  blossoms  were  small,  re- 
sembhng  syringa  blossoms,  but  set  thick  on  long,  tas- 
selling  stems,  as  corn  blossoms  are  ;  and  these  again 
massed  thick  around  the  central  stem,  making  a  branch- 
ing, drooping,  and  yet  erect  and  stately  spike,  not  un- 
like the  spike  of  the  flower  of  the  Indian  corn,  except 
that  it  was  much  thicker  and  more  solid.  It  was  the 
most  regal  flower  I  ever  saw  growing.  Among  these 
were  growing  many  lower  spikes  of  a  tiny  white  flower 
like  our  lady's-tresses.  But  even  these  spikes  of  this  tiny 
flower  were  at  least  two  inches  in  circumference  at  the 
bottom,  tapering  up  to  the  top  exquisitely. 

Again  loaded  with  sheaves,  we  climbed  back  into  the 
boat.  Fred  looked  on  wonderingly.  There  was  no 
room  to  step,  to  sit.  He  never  carried  such  multi- 
tudes before. 

"  Now,  row  out,  Fred,  into  the  middle  of  the  lake," 
we  said,  as  we  sank  down. 

By  this  time  the  sunsetting  had  begun.  The  sky 
and  the  mountains  and  the  water  were  all  turning  rose- 
pink  ;  and  we  came  shooting  anon  in  the  midst  of  the 
rose-color,  bringing  our  fiery  reds  and  stately  white! 
We  set  the  tall  snowy  spikes  upright  along  the  sides  of 
the  boat ;  great  nodding  yellow  disks,  too,  of  the  ele- 
campane and  the  vermillion  bells  of  columbine.  Then 
we  m.ade  one  huge  bouquet  of  the  scarlet  painted  cups 
and  the  blue  forget-me-nots  ;  one  of  the  red  trumpet 
flower  and  the  white  pennyroyal,  with  a  solid  base  of 
the  mysterious  dark  blue  flowers  ;  one  of  the  white 
ladj's-tresses,  with  the  red  trumpets ;  and  one  of  the 


LAKE    TAHOE.  155 

stately  white  spikes,  with  branching  ferns.  Then,  set- 
ting these  up  as  royal  passengers,  we  lay  down  humbly 
at  their  feet,  and,  with  our  heads  low,  looked  off  over 
the  rose-colored  waters.  Much  I  doubt  if  so  gorgeous 
a  pageant  will  ever  float  again  on  that  water. 

The  next  day  we  rowed  early  in  the  morning.  Fred 
had  assured  us  that  in  a  still  morning  one  could  see  the 
bottom  of  the  lake  where  it  was  one  hundred  and  fifteen 
feet  deep.  We  doubted,  but  longed  to  believe.  The 
water  was  like  glass.  We  rowed  out  toward  the  centre 
of  the  lake.  The  snow-covered  mountains  on  the 
further  side  were  reflected  in  long,  white,  shimmering 
columns  on  the  purple  surface  of  the  water. 

"Thirty,"  "fifty,"  "sixty,"  "one  hundred  feet  deep,' 
Fred  called  out  from  time  to  time  as  he  rowed  steadily 
on.  And  we,  hanging  half  out  of  the  boat,  exclaimed 
with  irrepressible  wonder  at  the  golden-brown  world 
below,  into  which  we  were  gazing.  We  could  see  the 
bottom  of  the  lake  as  clearly  as  we  could  see  the  bottom 
of  the  boat.  It  was  a  dusty  field,  with  huge  bowlders, 
covered  with  a  soft  brown  growth,  which  made  them 
look  like  gigantic  sponges.  Then  would  come  great 
ledges  of  rock  ;  then  dark  hollows,  unfathomably  deep. 

"  I  shpect  if  she  be  dry  she  be  shust  Hke  these  moun- 
tains," said  Fred,  —  "  all  canyons  and  pig  beaks." 

And  in  a  moment  more  :  "  Here  it  ish  one  hunder 
fifteen  feet  clear,"  he  called  out  triumphantly,  and  lifted 
his  oars. 

Not  a  stone  was  indistinct.  We  could  count  small 
ones.  It  seemed  as  if  we  could  touch  them  with  ease  ; 
and,  swift  as  an  arrow,  apparently  within  our  hand's 
reach,  went  by  a  shining  trout. 

"  How  far  down  was  he,  Fred  ?  "  we  called. 

"  Ach  !  Don't  know.  Maype  fifty  feet,"  said  Fred. 
The  trout  were  an  old  story  to  him. 

But  it  was  when  we  turned  to  row  back  that  the  full 
wonder  of  such  a  transparent  sea  was  revealed  to  us. 
The  sun  was  behind  us.  As  we  looked  over  the  bows, 
we  could  see  the  shadow  of  our  boat,  of  our  heads,  of 


156  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

the  moving  oars,  all  distinct  on  the  soft  brown  bottom 
of  the  lake.  This  shadow  lay  off  to  the  left,  a  little 
ahead,  ghding  as  we  glided,  pausing  as  we  paused  ; 
then,  direcdy  ahead,  ghding  as  we  glided,  pausing  as  we 
paused,  went  anodier  double,  equally  distinct,  but  dark 
and  shimmering  on  the  surface.  This  was  the  reflection. 
Over  the  edges  of  this  phantom  boat  we  seemed  to 
be  leaning  with  even  more  eagerness  than  over  the 
edges  of  the  one  below.  It  was  an  uncanny  sight.  To 
have  two  shadows  would  have  been  too  much  for  even 
Peter  Schlemihl.  It  added  much  to  the  unreality  of 
the  sight  that  every  round  stone,  every  small  object  on 
the  bottom  was  surrounded  by  a  narrow  line  of  rainbow. 
These  gave  a  fantastic  gayety  to  the  soft  amber-brown 
realm,  and,  beautiful  as  they  made  it,  made  it  also  seem 
more  supernatural. 

"  You  pe  shust  in  time,"  called  Fred.  "  In  two  min- 
ute you  not  see  nothing.     There  vill  pe  vint." 

Sure  enough.  Already  the  ripple  was  in  sight,  com- 
ing rapidly  toward  us  from  the  north.  The  air  stirred 
faintly,  our  glass  sea  quivered  and  broke  noiselessly 
under  us,  and  the  phantom  boat  below  disappeared. 

As  we  rowed  on  the  shallower  water,  nearing  the  shore, 
where  we  could  still  see  the  bottom  distinctly,  the  effects 
of  the  sunlight  on  it  were  exquisite.  It  lay  in  lapping 
and  interlacing  circles  and  ovals  of  yellow,  and  the  sur- 
face ripples  were  reflected  there  in  larger  hues.  The 
reflection  of  the  oars  in  the  water  on  each  side  of  us 
looked  like  golden  snakes,  swimming  fast  alongside, 
and  the  beautiful  rainbow  lines  still  edged  every  object 
on  the  bottom,  —  even  an  old  shoe  and  the  ace  of  dia- 
monds, which  were  the  last  things  I  saw  on  the  bottom 
of  Lake  Tahoe.  "Not  so  inappropriate,  eithei,"  said 
we,  '*  ugly  as  they  are.  For  the  old  shoe  meant  good 
luck,  and  diamonds  are  trumps  all  the  world  over.' 


A/y  BAY  IN  THE    WILDERNESS.  iS7 


MY   DAY   IN   THE   WILDERNESS. 

IT  was  the  morning  of  our  eighth  day  in  Ah-wah-ne  ; 
and  the  next  day  we  must  go. 

If  it  had  been  my  birthday  of  my  eightieth  year  in 
Ah-wah-ne,  I  could  not  have  dung  to  the  valley  more 
fondly.  As  I  looked  up  to  the  dark  line  of  firs  on  either 
side  of  the  Great  Fall,  I  pictured  to  myself  the  form  of 
that  six-year-old  boy  of  the  Ah-wah-ne-chee,  who,  when 
the  white  men  entered  the  valley,  was  seen  cHmbing, 
naked,  like  a  wild  chamois,  on  the  glistening  granite 
face  of  the  rock-wall,  midway  between  heaven  and  earth, 
to  escape  the  enemy.  A  cruel  man  of  his  tribe  lured 
him  down  and  gave  him  captive  to  the  white  men,  who 
christened  him  Reuben,  put  trowsers  on  him,  and  sent 
nim  to  school.  But  just  when  they  thought  they  had 
him  tamed,  he  stole  two  horses  and  ran  away,  "  to  illus- 
trate the  folly  of  attempting  to  civiHze  the  race,"  says 
the  biographer  of  the  poor  Ah-wah-ne-chee  ;  "to  illus- 
trate the  spell  of  Ah-wah-ne,"'  say  I.  Swift  on  the 
stolen  horses  I  know  he  rode  back  to  Ah-wah-ne,  and 
finding  it  in  the  hands  of  white  men,  fled  on  to  some 
still  remoter  walled  valley,  where  he  lives  in  a  wigwam 
to-day. 

"  John  Murphy,  guide,"  as  with  quaint  dignity  he 
writes  his  name,  stood  near  me,  also  looking  up  at  the 
Fall. 

"  When  you  come  back  next  year,  's  ye  say  you're 
comin',  but  then  folks  never  does  come  back  when  they 
say  they  will,"  said  Murphy,  "  Pll  hev  a  trail  built  right 
to  the  base  o'  thet  upper  fall." 

"Why,  Mr.  Murphy,  where  will  you  put  it?"  I  said, 


15S  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

looking  along  the  sheer  gray  wall  three  thousand  feet 
high. 

"There's  plenty  of  places.  I'll  make  it  as  broad  'n' 
easy  a  trail  's  there  is  in  this  valley,"  said  Murphy 
quietly  ;  "  'tain't  half  so  steep  as  'tis  up  Indian  Canyon, 
where  they've  just  finished  a  new  trail  this  week;  at 
least  so  they  say  ;  I  hain't  seen  it." 

"  Up  Indian  Canyon,"  I  exclaimed,  for  I  knew  where 
that  lay ;  it  was  the  next  one  to  the  east  of  the  Great 
Fall,  and  in  one  of  the  steepest  parts  of  the  valley. 
"  Then  why  can  I  not  go  out  of  the  valley  that  way,  and 
strike  across  to  Gentry's  t " 

Murphy  hesitated. 

"  Well,  ye  might ;  an'  'twould  be  jest  what  you'd  like  ; 
you  could  cross  the  Yo  Semite  Creek  just  above  the 
Fall,  an'  go  up  on  to  Eagle  Pint ;  an'  the  view  from 
there  is  finer  than  'tis  from  Sentinel  Dome  where  I  took 
ye  yesterday.  But  ye  see  I  mistrust  whether  the  river 
ain't  too  high  to  ford." 

What  more  could  be  needed  to  make  one  resolve  to 
go  ?  Boom-boom-boom,  sounded  the  deep  violoncelld 
undertones  of  the  Fall,  thundering  down  from  the  sky, 
three  thousand  feet  up.  Ford  that  ?  Every  drop  oC 
blood  in  one's  veins  took  a  bound  at  the  thought. 

All  the  Scotchman  in  Murphy  demurred  about  the 
undertaking ;  but  the  woodsman  and  the  sympathizing 
guide  conquered. 

"  I'd  like  to  hev  ye  see  it  first  rate,"  he  said,  "but  I 
want  ye  to  understand  before  we  set  out,  that  I  shan't 
cross  if  I  think  there's  any  resk." 

This  last  with  a  determination  of  tone  which  was 
worthy  of  Cromwell. 

In  an  hour  all  was  ready,  and,  in  spite  of  shaking 
heads  and  warning  voices,  we  set  out.  In  that  short 
time  the  usual  amount  of  conflicting  testimony  had  been 
gathered  as  to  the  trail  and  the  condition  of  the  river. 
'•The  trail  was  finished;"  "the  trail  was  only  hali 
lone  ; "  "  the  river  was  much  too  high  to  be  forded ; ' 
*  a  man  had  come  across  yesterday,  wHhout  trouble." 


MY  DAY  IN  THE  WILDERNESS.  159 

"  I  expect  ye'd  kind  o'  hate  to  give  up,  an'  come  down 
into  the  valley  agin  ?  "  said  Murphy,  inquiringly,  as  we 
rode  out  into  the  meadows. 

"  Mr.  Murphy,"  I  replied,  "  I  shall  not  give  up,  and 
come  down  into  the  valley  again.  There  must  be  some 
other  way  of  getting  across,  higher  up.     Is  theie  not  ?  " 

If  Mr.  Murphy  perceived  the  truly  feminine  manner 
in  which  I  defined  my  position,  the  dehcious  contrast 
between  my  first  sentence  and  my  last,  he  did  not  betray 
any  consciousness  of  it,  but  answered  with  undisturbed 
gravity  :  — 

"  Why,  yes  ;  there's  the  old  Mono  Trail,  a  good  piece 
farther  up  the  river.  But  I  dunno  's  you  could  ride  so 
far  's  that.  However,  we  don't  know  yet  but  what  we 
can  get  over  to  the  first  ford."  And  Murphy  relapsed 
into  his  customary  thoughtful  silence. 

The  meadow  was  dewy  and  sweet ;  through  the  lush 
grass  and  brakes  we  rode  past  red  hlies,  white  azalias, 
columbines,  and  wild  roses  :  after  half  an  hour  of  this, 
we  struck  the  new  trail  and  began  climbing  the  wall. 

Almost  at  once,  by  the  first  two  or  three  bends  of  the 
trail,  we  were  lifted  so  high  above  the  valley,  that  its  walls 
seemed  to  round  and  close  to  the  west,  and  the  green 
meadow  and  its  shining  river  sank,  sank,  like  a  mala- 
chite disk,  slowly  settling  into  place,  at  bottom.  The 
trail  was  steeper  than  any  we  had  seen.  Even  Murphy 
muttered  disapprovingly  at  some  of  its  grades,  and 
jumped  down  and  walked  to  make  the  climb  easier  for 
his  old  gray.  On  our  left  hand  rose  a  granite  wall,  so 
straight  that  we  could  see  but  a  little  way  up,  so  close 
that  we  had  need  to  take  care  in  turning  corners  not  to 
be  bruised  by  its  sharp  points,  and  so  piled  up  in  pro- 
jecting and  overlapping  masses  that,  mountain  as  it  was, 
it  seemed  as  if  it  might  topple  at  any  second.  On  our 
right  hand  —  space  !  nothing  more  ;  radiant,  sunny; 
crisp,  clear  air:  across  it  I  looked  over  at  the  grand 
domes  and  pinnacles  of  the  southern  wall  of  Ah-wah-ne  ; 
down  through  it  I  looked  into  the  depths  of  Ah-wah-ne  ; 
away  from  it  I  turned,  di/zy,  shuddering,  and  found  the 


l6o  bITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

threatening  rocks  on  the  left  friendly  by  contrast.  Then, 
with  impatience  at  my  own  weakness,  I  would  turn  my 
face  toward  the  measureless  space  again,  and  compel 
myself  to  look  over,  and  across,  and  out  and  down. 

But  it  could  not  be  borne  for  many  minutes  ;  even 
Murphy  did  not  like  it. 

"  I  reckon  this  trail  won't  be  much  of  a  favorite,"  he 
said  grimly  ;  "  'pears  to  me  it's  worse'n  't  used  to  be 
gettin'  up  among  the  trees,  on  the  Injun  trail."  We 
zigzagged  so  sharply  that  we  seemed  often  to  be  merely 
doubling  on  our  own  track,  with  no  perceptible  gain, 
although  each  ascent  was  so  steep  that  the  horses  had 
to  stop  for  breath  every  two  or  three  minutes.  But  to 
all  my  propositions  to  walk  Murphy  replied  with  firm 
denial. 

"  You'll  be  tired  enough,  come  night,  anyhow,"  he 
said,  with  a  droll  mixture  of  compassion  and  approbation 
in  his  voice  :  "  you  stay  where  ye  be  ;  that  horse  can 
do  it  well  enough." 

But  he  led  his  own  more  than  half  the  way. 

New  flowers,  and  new  ferns,  that  I  had  not  found 
before  in  all  Ah-wah-ne,  hung  thick  on  the  rocky  wall, 
which,  facing  south,  has  sun  all  day,  and  can  make  the 
most  of  Ah-wah-ne's  short  summers. 

Every  cleft  was  full  of  color  or  of  nodding  green. 
High  in  the  very  topmost  crevices  waved  scarlet  and 
blue  blossoms  like  pennons,  so  far  above  our  heads  that 
we  could  see  no  shape,  only  the  fluttering  color;  and 
long  sprays  of  yellow  honeysuckle  swept  into  our  very 
faces  again  and  again. 

Suddenly,  Murphy  halted,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  I  vow  !  " 

Several  other  voices  spoke  at  once,  surprise  and  curi- 
osity in  their  tones  :  a  bend  in  the  trail  concealed  the 
speakers.  I  hurried  around  it,  and  found  myself  facing 
four  men  working  with  pickaxes  and  spades  on  the 
trail.  A  small  fire  was  burning  on  the  rocks,  and  a  big 
iron  pot  of  coffee  boiled  and  bubbled  above  it,  exhaling 
delicious  fragrance.     The  men  leaned  on  their  tools  and 


MV  DAY  IN  THE  WILDERNESS.  i6l 

looked  at  me.  I  looked  at  Murphy.  Nobody  spoke. 
This  was  the  end  of  the  new  trail ! 

"  I  s'pose  ye  can  get  through  well  enough ;  the 
bushes  are  cut  down,"  said  one. 

Murphy  said  something  in  a  tone  so  low  I  could  not 
hear ;  I  fear  it  was  not  complimentary  to  my  riding. 

"  Mr.  Murphy,"  said  I,  ''  I  would  rather  ride  all  day 
and  all  night  in  the  woods  than  ride  down  this  precipice 
again.  Pray  keep  on.  I  can  follow  wherever  you  can 
go." 

Murphy  smiled  pityingly  at  me,  and  went  on  talking 
with  the  men.  Then  he  walked  away  with  them  for  a 
few  moments.  When  he  came  back,  I  read  in  his  eyes 
that  we  were  to  go  on. 

"  There's  the  old  Injun  trail,"  he  said,  "  there  ain't 
any  trouble  about  the  trail.  The  thing  that  stumps  me, 
is  the  river ;  there  don't  none  of  these  men  think  you 
can  get  over." 

"  But  I'm  goin'  to  get  you  through  to  Gentry's,  some- 
how, before  I  sleep,"  added  Murphy,  with  a  new  and 
delightful  doggedness  spreading  over  his  face  ;  and  he 
sprang  into  his  saddle,  and  pushed  on.  One  of  the  men 
picked  up  his  hatchet,  and  followed,  saying :  — 

"  There's  a  bad  piece  just  out  yonder  ;  I  guess  I'll  fix 
a  little  for  the  lady." 

The  "piece"  consisted  simply  of  a  brook,  full  of 
bowlders,  water  running  like  a  mill-race,  fallen  trees 
and  bent  saplings,  and  tangled  bushes  all  woven  and 
interwoven  above  it.  How  we  got  over  I  do  not  know. 
Then  the  knight  with  the  hatchet  went  back,  and  we 
began  to  pick  our  way  up  Indian  Canyon.  I  could  see 
no  trail.  All  I  knew  was  that  Murphy  was  zigzagging 
along  before  me,  on  the  steep  side  of  the  Canyon, 
through  thickets  of  interlaced  growths  of  all  sorts,  and 
over  numberless  little  streams  which  were  foaming 
across  our  track,  and  that  I  was  following  him, 

"  Don't  try  to  guide  the  horse,"  he  called  back  to  me 
every  few  minutes.  "  He'll  follow  me,  or  pick  out  a 
better  way  for  himself." 


l52  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

The  "better  way"  resulted  presently  in  a  most  sur- 
prising sensation.  ,  Lifting  one  forefoot  after  the  other 
^carefully,  and  setting  them  both  down  firmly  on  the 
farther  side  of  a  big  fallen  tree,  my  horse  whisked  his 
two  hind  feet  over  at  one  jump,  which  nearly  threw  m* 
over  his  head. 

"  You  villain ! "  shouted  Murphy,  who  happened  to 
be  looking  back.  "  That's  because  he's  gettin'  tired ; 
I'll  look  out  and  not  lead  ye  over  any  more  trees  Vg 
enough  to  jump." 

Many  an  extra  half-mile  did  we  ride  before  night  by 
reason  of  this  :  it  was  hours  before  I  could  ride  my 
horse  at  the  smallest  log  without  a  sharp  terror. 

But  Indian  Canyon  did  not  last  long.  Once  at  the 
head  of  it,  we  came  out  into  magnificent  spaces  of  for- 
est ;  pines  and  firs  from  one  hundred  to  three  hundred 
feet  high,  all  about  us,  and  as  far  as  we  could  see,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  we  could  look  off  as  far  as  upon  an 
ocean,  for  the  trunks  rose  straight,  and  bare,  and 
branchless  for  fifty,  sixty,  eighty  feet.  The  ground  was 
soft,  with  piled  layers  of  brown  pine  needles,  and 
high-branching  brakes,  which  bent  noiselessly  under 
our  feet.  In  and  out  among  the  fallen  trees,  now 
to  right,  now  to  left.  Murphy  pushed  on,  through 
these  trackless  spaces,  as  unhesitatingly  as  on  a  turn- 
pike. 

Following  a  few  paces  behind,  I  fell  into  a  silence  as 
deep  as  his.  I  lost  consciousness  of  every  thing  except 
the  pure  animal  delight  of  earth,  and  tree,  and  sky.  I 
did  not  know  how  many  hours  had  passed,  when  Murphy 
suddenly  stopped,  and  said  :  — 

"  You  set  as  if  you  was  getting  tired.  I  reckon  you'd 
better  rest  a  spell  here  ;  and  I'll  go  down  on  foot  to  the 
river  an'  see  if  we  can  get  across.  You'll  feel  better, 
too,  if  you  eat  somethin'."  And  he  looked  at  me  a  little 
anxiously. 

It  was  past  noon.  Murphy  was  right :  it  was  high 
time  for  rest  and  for  lunch,  but  merely  to  leave  the 
saddle  was  not   rest.     The  intense  realization  of   the 


MV  DAY  IN  THE    WILDERNESS.  163 

grandeur  and  the  solitude  was  only  heightened  as  I 
sat  all  alone,  in  such  silence  as  I  never  knew,  in  such 
space  as  I  never  felt.  Murphy  was  not  gone,  he  said, 
more  than  ten  minutes,  but  in  that  ten  minutes  I  lived 
the  life  of  all  hermits  who  have  ever  dwelt  in  desert  or 
mountain. 

As  he  came  slowly  towards  me,  I  studied  his  face : 
Ford  ?  or  no  ford  ? 

I  could  not  gather  a  gleam  of  indication,  but  one 
learns  strange  reticence  with  reticent  people.  I  did 
not  speak,  only  smiled :  Murphy  did  not  speak,  only 
smiled,  but  shook  his  head,  and  began  at  once  to  fasten 
the  saddle-bags  on  his  saddle  again. 

In  a  moment,  he  spoke.  "  No  use.  Couldn't  get 
across  there  myself,  nohow.  I  never  see  the  river  so 
high  't  this  time  o'  year." 

Now  what  was  to  be  done  ?  The  old  Mono  trail,  of 
which  Murphy  had  spoken,  came  up  the  other  side  of 
Indian  Canyon,  and  struck  the  river  four  miles  higher. 
We  could  not  be  many  miles  from  that  trail ;  but  the 
finding  it  was  a  matter  of  luck  and  chance.  We  might 
strike  off  on  the  ridges  along  the  river,  in  just  the  line 
to  hit  it.  We  might  wander  about  for  hours,  and  not 
find  it.  Then,  again,  when  we  had  found  it,  and  by  it 
had  reached  the  river,  what  if  even  there  the  river  proved 
unfordable  ?  This  was  Murphy's  great  point  of  per- 
plexity, I  could  see. 

"We  should  have  hard  work  to  get  back  to  the  valley 
again  to-night,"  he  said. 

I  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  riding  down  that  wall 
after  dark.  But  I  kept  silence.  I  did  not  wish  to  seem 
to  bias  his  decision.     At  last  he  burst  out  with,  — 

"  I'm  blamed  if  I  know  what  to  do.  I  hate  to  give 
up  an'  go  back's  bad 's  you  can.  I  can  sleep  well 
enough  under  a  tree,  if  wust  comes  to  wust,  but  I 
dunno  's  't  's  right  to  run  any  risk  oii't  for  you." 

Sleeping  under  a  tree,  with  brave,  kind,  old  Murphy 
to  keep  a  watch-fire  burning,  looked  to  me  like  paradise 
in  comparison  with  riding  down  Indian  Canyon  at  night. 


1 64  BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME, 

"  Mr.  Murphy,"  said  I,  "  you  must  decide.  I  myself 
would  far  rather  ride  all  night,  or  sit  all  night  under  a 
tree,  than  go  down  that  trail  again.  I  am  not  in  the 
least  afraid  of  any  thing  excepting  that.  But  I  prom- 
ised to  be  guided  by  your  judgment,  and  I  will.  I  will 
turn  right  round  now,  and  go  back  to  the  valley,  if  you 
say  so.  But  you  must  decide.  Do  just  what  you  really 
think  best." 

This  I  said  because  my  whole  heart  was  set  on  going 
to  Gentry's  by  the  Mono  trail. 

Murphy  pulled  out  his  watch.  It  was  half -past  one 
o'clock. 

"  I  don't  think  we  could  be  later'n  three,  gettin'  to 
the  river,"  he  said.     "  I'll  do  it !  I'll  resk  it !  " 

"But  I  dunno  's  now  I'm  doin'  right,"  he  added,  as  I 
clapped  my  hands  and  sprang  up.  I  sat  down  again 
and  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Yes,  yes,  I'll  resk  it,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  wan't 
agoin'  back  on  myself,  but  I  dunno  's  I'm  doin'  right 
for  all  that." 

After  we  were  mounted,  Murphy  stood  still  for  some 
minutes,  looking  carefully  all  around,  taking  his  bear- 
ings. Then  he  rode  off  in  a  direction  apparently  at 
right  angles  to  the  river.  Now  I  was  to  find  out  —  I 
who  had  thought  the  trail  up  Indian  Canyon  well-nigh 
impassable  —  what  it  is  to  ride  where  there  is  no  trail. 
Over  steep  slopes,  thick  with  bowlders  and  bushes,  and 
no  trace  of  a  path,  —  along  rocky  ledges,  where  loose 
stones  rolled  under  the  horses'  feet  at  every  step, — 
three  times  Murphy  tried  too  near  the  river  to  get  up  to 
the  Mono  trail.  At  last  he  turned  back  and  struck 
down  into  the  leveler  spaces  of  forest  again.  It  began 
to  seem  as  if  we  were  riding  round  and  round  in  circles  ; 
north  and  south,  and  east  and  west,  seemed  alike  ;  it 
was  hard  to  believe  that  Murphy  had  any  plan,  any  in- 
stinct. Acre  after  acre  of  pine-forest,  hill  after  hill  oi 
bowlders  and  bushes,  valley  after  valley  with  threading 
streams  at  bottom,  we  crossed.  Sometimes  we  came 
upon  great   fields  of  low  berry-bearing  bushes,  undei 


MV  DAY  IN  THE    WILDERNESS.  165 

the  majestic  pines.  There  was  something  touching 
in  the  sight  of  these  stores  of  tiny  fruit  for  the  fee- 
ble folk  who  Hve  on  wing  and  in  nests  in  the  wilder- 
ness. Clumps  of  the  strange  red  snow-flower,  too,  we 
saw  in  the  wildest  and  most  desolate  places.  Surely 
there  can  be  no  flower  on  earth  whose  look  so  allies  it 
to  uncanny  beings  and  powers.  "  Sarcodes  sanguinea," 
the  botanists  have  called  it ;  I  beheve  the  spirits  of  the 
air  know  it  by  some  other. 

Imagine  a  red  cone,  from  four  to  ten  inches  in  height, 
and  one  or  two  in  diameter,  set  firmly  in  the  ground. 
It  is  not  simply  red,  it  is  blood-red  ;  deep  and  bright  as 
drops  from  living  veins.  It  is  soft,  flesh-like,  and  in 
the  beginning  shows  simply  a  surface  of  small,  close, 
lapping,  sheath-like  points,  as  a  pine-cone  does.  These 
slowly  open,  beginning  at  the  top,  and  as  they  fold  back 
you  see  under  each  one  a  small  flower,  shaped  like  the 
flower  of  the  Indian  Pipe,  and  of  similar  pulpiness. 
This  also  is  blood-red  ;  but  the  centre  of  the  cone,  now 
revealed,  is  of  a  fleshy-pinkish  white  ;  so  also  is  the 
tiny,  almost  imperceptible  stem  which  unites  the  flower 
to  it.  They  grow  sometimes  in  clumps,  like  the  Indian 
Pipe,  three  or  four  in  a  clump,  sometimes  singly.  As 
far  off  as  one  can  see  down  the  dim  vistas  of  these 
pine-forests  will  gleam  out  the  vivid  scarlet  of  one  of 
these  superb  uncanny  flowers.  When  its  time  comes 
to  die,  it  turns  black,  so  that  in  its  death,  also,  it  looks 
like  a  fleshy  thing  linked  to  mysteries. 

At  last  Murphy  shouted  triumphantly  from  ahead  : 
*'  Here's  the  trail.  Fetched  it  this  time  ;  now  keep  up, 
sharp  ; "  and  he  rode  off  down  a  steep  and  rocky  hill- 
side, at  a  rate  which  dismayed  me.  The  trail  was  faint, 
but  distinct :  at  times  on  broad  opens,  it  spread  out  sud- 
denly into  thousands  of  narrow  dusty  furrows  ;  these 
had  been  made  by  flocks  of  sheep  driven  through  earlier 
in  the  season.  From  some  of  these  broad  opens  were 
magnificent  views  of  the  high  Sierras;  we  were  six 
thousand  feet  high,  but  they  were  five  and  six  and  eight 
thousand  feet  higher  still ;  their  glistening  white  peaks 


i66  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

looked  like  ice-needles,  sharp,  thick-set  against  the  far 
blue  sky  ;  between  us  and  them,  a  few  miles  off,  to  the 
left,  lay  the  beautiful  granite-walled,  meadow-paved 
abyss  of  Ah-wah-ne,  but  its  narrow  opening  made  no 
perceptible  break  in  the  grand  surfaces  of  green  and 
gray  over  which  we  looked  to  the  horizon.  It  seemed 
long  before  we  reached  the  river.  At  first  sight  of  its 
gleam  through  the  trees,  Murphy  drove  his  spurs  into 
his  horse,  and  galloped  towards  it.  Slowly  he  rode  up 
and  down  the  bank,  looking  intently  at  the  water. 
Then  he  turned  and  rode  back  to  me.  As  before,  I 
studied  his  reticent  face  in  vain.  But,  when  he  began 
to  speak,  his  eyes  twinkled. 

"It's  runnin'  pretty  fast,  but  I  can  get  ye  over:  I'll 
do  it  now,  if  I  have  to  carry  ye.  But  I'm  goin'  to  ride 
over  fust  to  see  how  the  stones  lay,"  and  he  plunged  in. 
I  had  hard  work  to  hold  my  horse  back  from  following. 
Suddenly  Murphy  looked  back  and  shouted,  "  Come  on. 
'Taint  so  deep  's  I  thought;  come  right  on."  For  a 
second  I  shrank.  Murphy  was  half  across  ;  the  water 
was  foaming  high;  I  could  see  no  bottom;  Murphy's 
feet  were  thrown  up  by  an  inexplicable  gymnastic  twist, 
so  that  they  were  nearly  on  his  horse's  back,  and  nearly 
to  his  feet  the  water  came  ;  the  current  seemed  to  me 
swift  enough  to  carry  any  living  thing,  man  or  horse,  off 
his  legs  in  a  second.  But  shame  made  me  bold,  and  I 
rode  in.  At  the  first  gurgling  rush  of  the  water  under 
me,  and  the  first  sway  of  my  horse's  body  in  it,  I  leaned 
forward,  clutched  his  neck,  shut  my  eyes,  drew  up  my 
left  foot,  and  tried  not  to  think.  It  could  not  have  been 
more  than  four  or  five  minutes  across,  by  the  watch  ; 
but  there  are  other  measures  of  time  than  time.  When 
I  scrambled  out  dripping  on  the  bank.  Murphy  sat  on 
his  horse  looking  at  me  kindly. 

"  Ye  done  that  fust  rate,"  he  said,  "  an'  now  the 
sooner  we  push  on  the  better." 

I  pleaded  for  five  minutes'  rest  for  the  horses  to  nib- 
ble the  low  green  grass  which  grew  in  the  little  bit  of 
meadow  at  the  ford.     Poor  things  !  it  was  half-past  four 


MY  DAY  IN   THE     WILDERNESS.       167 

o'clock  ;  not  a  mouthful  of  food  had  they  had  since 
morning.  For  the  last  two  hours  mine  had  been  snatch- 
ing mouthfuls  of  every  eatable  and  uneatable  shrub  we 
had  passed. 

But  Murphy  was  inexorable.  " 'Twon't  do  them  no 
good,  the  little  bit  they'd  get,  an'  we've  got  considerable 
ridin'  to  do  yet."  he  said. 

"  How  far  is  it  tc  Gentry's  now  ?  "  said  I. 

"  I  dunno  exactly,"  rephed  Murphy,  Wise  Murphy  ! 
"  If  we'd  come  out  on  Eagle  Pint,  where  we  calculated 
to,  it  'ud  ha'  been  about  six  miles  from  there  to  Gen- 
try's.    But  it's  some  farther  from  here." 

Some  farther  !  into  sunless,  pathless  woods,  miles 
and  miles  of  them,  —  out  on  bare  plateaus,  acres  and 
acres  of  them, — down  canyons,  steep  and  ledged  with 
bare  rocks,  or  jungled  with  trees  and  bushes,  down  one 
side,  over  the  stream  at  bottom,  and  up  the  other  side, 
across  three  of  them,  led  that  Mono  trail.  And  after 
the  woods,  and  the  plateaus,  and  the  canyons,  came 
more  woods  ;  "  the  last  woods,"  said  Murphy.  These 
were  the  great  Tamarack  Flats.  Dense,  dark,  desolate  ; 
trees  with  black-seamed  bark,  straight  and  branchless, 
unloving  and  grim,  up  to  the  very  tops  ;  and  even  the 
tops  did  not  seem  to  blend,  though  they  shut  out  the 
sky.  A  strange  ancient  odor  filled  the  air,  as  fiom  cen- 
turies of  distilling  essence  of  resins,  and  mouldering 
dust  of  spices.  Again,  and  again,  and  again,  we  were 
stopped  by  a  fallen  tree,  which  lay,  barring  our  path  for 
a  hundred  feet  each  way,  and  was  crossed  again  itself  by 
other  fallen  trees,  till  we  had  to  whirl  and  twine  and  ride 
up  and  down  to  get  out  of  the  corral.  Then  we  would 
come  to  a  huge  snow-bank,  nine,  ten  feet  high,  curiously 
dotted  and  marked  over  the  whole  surface,  where  rain- 
drops had  pattered  down,  and  pine-needles  had  fallen  ; 
around  these  also  we  had  to  ride,  for  they  were  too 
soft  to  bear  the  horses'  weight. 

After  these  circuits  it  was  very  hard  to  find  the  trail 
again,  for  there  was  no  trace  of  it  on  the  ground,  — only 
old  blazes  on  the  trees  to  indicate  it. 

Sometimes  Murphy  would  tell  me  to  wait  wliere  I 


1 68  BITS   OF  TRA VEi^   AT  HOME. 

was,  and  not  stir,  while  he  rode  back  and  forth  look- 
ing for  a  blaze  on  a  tree.  Sometimes  I  spied  the 
blaze  first ;  and  then  I  felt  a  thrill  of  real  backwoods 
achievement. 

On  one  of  the  opens  he  suddenly  halted,  and,  waiting 
for  me  to  come  up,  pointed  to  a  mark  in  the  dust. 

'•  There's  something  ye  never  see  before,  I  reckon," 
he  said. 

It  was  a  broad  print  in  the  dust,  as  if  a  mitten  had 
beeii  laid  down  heavily. 

"That's  the  trail  of  a  grizzly,"  exclaimed  Murphy 
exultantly,  "  he  was  the  last  along  this  road." 

A  little  further  on  he  stopped  again,  and  after  leaning 
low  from  his  horse  and  looking  closely  at  the  ground, 
called  back  to  me  :  — 

"  There's  been  a  whole  herd  of  deer  along  here,  not 
but  a  very  little  while  ago.  I'd  ha'  liked  it  if  you  could 
ha'  had  a  look  at  'em." 

"  Grizzlies,  deer,  and  if  there  were  any  other  wild 
creature  there,  I  should  have  been  glad  to  see  them  all. 
Murphy  and  I  seemed  to  belong  to  the  wilderness  as 
much  as  they.  I  felt  ready  to  meet  my  kin,  and  rather 
lonely  that  they  were  all  out  of  the  way.  But  I  wished 
that  they  kept  their  house  better  lighted.  It  was  fast 
growing  dark  ;  very  dark  very  fast.  It  was  already 
impossible  for  me  to  see  the  blazes  on  the  trees  ;  and 
Murphy  had  often  to  ride  close  up  to  a  tree  to  make 
sure  he  was  right.  The  blazes  were  old,  and  in  many 
places  almost  the  color  of  the  rest  of  the  tree.  I  could 
see  that  Murphy  was  anxious.  He  kept  his  horse  at 
the  fastest  gait  he  thought  I  could  follow,  and  said  to 
me  every  now  and  then.  "  Ye  must  keep  up  's  well  's  ye 
can.     These  woods  is  pretty  dark." 

My  horse  was  a  pacer,  originally  ;  but  bad  usage  and 
old  age  had  so  robbed  him  of  his  gait,  that  the  instant 
he  moved  quickly  he  became  almost  unendurable.  It 
was  neither  pace,  trot,  nor  run,  but  a  capricious  mixing 
of  the  three.  Hunger  and  crossness  now  added  to  the 
iriegularitj  of  his  motions,  and  it  was  simply  impossible 


MV  DAY  IN  THE     WILDERNESS.       169 

for  me  to  bear  more  than  a  few  minutes  at  a  time  of 
any  thing  but  a  walk.  I  felt  also  a  singular  indifference 
to  getting  out  of  that  wood.  It  was  uncanny  in  its 
gloom  and  damp  and  chill  ;  but  I  liked  being  there. 
Its  innumerable  and  impenetrable  black  vistas  had  an 
indescribable  fascination.  And  here  and  there,  even  in 
the  darkest  distances,  gleamed  out  the  vivid  warmthless 
glow  of  the  mysterious  snow-plants  ;  sometimes  just  in 
the  edge  of  the  snow-drifts  ;  sometimes  on  the  banks  of 
inky  brooks. 

Very  dark,  very  fast,  it  grew  ;  Murphy  rode  pitilessly 
ahead,  and  I  crept  patiently  along,  keeping  my  eye  on 
the  ghostly  winding  white  of  his  horse  among  the  trees. 
Suddenly  I  saw  a  light  to  the  left,  and  Murphy  wheel- 
ing towards  it.  I  hurried  up.  Never  shall  I  forget  the 
picture  I  saw.  A  smouldering  fire,  two  evil-looking 
men  crouching  over  it ;  their  mules  tied  to  a  tree  ;  and 
a  third  still  more  villanous-looking  man  leading  up  a 
third  mule. 

But  Murphy  hailed  them  with  as  cheery  good  fellow- 
ship as  if  they  had  been  old  friends. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  Gentry's  ?  " 

"  Five  miles,"  said  they  sullenly. 

"  'Tain't  now,"  exclaimed  Murphy,  startled  into  a  tone 
of  real  astonishment. 

"  Guess  you'll  think  so  before  you  get  there ;  five 
o^<7<?<^  miles,"  said  the  man  who  was  leading  up  the  mule. 

Murphy  rode  on  without  a  word,  but  in  a  few  mo- 
ments he  turned  to  me,  and  said,  energetically  :  — 

"  Ye  must  reely  keep  up  smart  now.  I  couldn't  pos- 
sibly follow  this  trail,  if  it  was  to  get  much  darker,"  and 
he  fairly  galloped  off ;  turning  back,  however,  to  say  in 
a  lower  tone,  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  them  men  were 
runnin'  a  man  off  from  jail." 

Luckily,  the  last  three  miles  of  the  five  were  on  the 
high  road.  It  had  not  seemed  very  long  to  me,  though 
it  was  so  dark  that  I  could  not  have  followed  Murphy 
easily  except  for  his  being  on  a  white  horse  ;  when  he 
stopped,  and,  waiting  for  me  to  come  up,  said,  "  I  sup- 


170  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME, 

pose  'twould  surprise  ye  now  if  I  was  to  tell  you  thut 
the  road  is  jest  out  yonder  !  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Murphy,"  I  replied,  "  nothing  could  sur- 
prise me  less." 

"  Well,  here  'tis,"  he  said,  a  little  crest-fallen,  "  and 
our  troubles  are  all  over." 

It  had  a  friendlier  look  than  the  black  wood,  after  all, 
—  the  broad  gray  belt  of  distinct  road.  And  then  first 
I  realized  how  very  dark  it  had  been.  Even  in  the  road 
it  was  real  night. 

Three  miles  now  down  to  Gentry's,  the  very  road  over 
which,  eight  days  before,  we  had  rattled  so  furiously  in 
the  stage,  going  to  Ah-wah-ne. 

I  jumped  off  my  horse  ;  for  five  minutes  I  lay  at  full 
lengdi  on  a  mossy  log. 

''  I  thought  ye'd  have  to  own  up  to  bein'  some  tired 
before  ye  was  through  with  it,"  said  Murphy,  with  more 
compassion  in  his  voice  than  in  his  words.  "  I  tell  j<?//, 
though,  I  couldn't  ha'  followed  that  trail  half  an  hour 
longer.     It  ain't  so  dark  yet  's  it's  going  to  be." 

Gayly  we  cantered  up  to  Gentry's  piazza.  The  lamps 
flared  as  the  astonished  landlord  opened  his  door  to  see 
who  came  riding  so  late.  It  was  almost  nine  o'clock  ; 
twelve  hours  and  more  I  had  been  in  my  saddle. 

"  Do  tell,"  and  "  ye  don't  say,"  were  the  ejaculations 
with  which  everybody  received  the  news  of  our  having 
ridden  out  and  from  Ah-wah-ne  by  Indian  Canyon  and 
the  old  Mono  trail. 

What  a  night's  sleep  it  was,  to  be  sure,  which  I  took 
that  night  at  Gentry's  !  and  what  genuine  sympathy 
there  was  in  Murphy's  voice,  the  next  morning,  when 
he  came  early  to  my  door,  for  any  orders  to  take  down 
into  the  valley  !  and  I  said:  "  Tell  them  I  am  not  one 
whit  tired,  Mr.  Murphy." 

"Well,  I'm  reely  glad,"  replied  Murphy.  "I  was 
reely  a'most  afraid  to  ask  ye." 

When  we  bade  Murphy  good-bye  the  next  day,  we 
found  it  hard  to  make  him  take  the  small  gift  we  meant 
as  token  of  our  friendship,  and  our  appreciation  of  his 


MY  DAY  IN  THE  WILDERNESS.  171 

kindness  and  faithfulness  as  guide.  At  last  he  con- 
sented, saying :  "  I've  refused  a  great  many  times  to 
take  any  thin'  this  way.  But  I'll  tell  ye  what  I  shall  do. 
When  I  get  a  place  of  my  own,  I  shall  jest  put  this 
money  into  some  books,  and  write  you  folks'  names  in 
em  to  remember  ye  by." 

But  we  are  beforehand  with   him  in  the  matter  of 
names. 

Here  let  his  stand  written,  to  rememtmr  him  by :  — 

John  Murphy: 

Best  of  Guides  in  Most  Wonderfiu  of  Valleys. 


NEW    ENGLAND. 


HIDE-AND-SEEK    TOWN.  I7S 


HIDE-AND-SEEK   TOWN. 

IT  lies  in  the  uplands,  and  you  can  go  within  a  mile 
of  it  by  rail.  But  where  are  the  uplands,  and 
whence  departs  the  train  to  find  them,  and  what  is  the 
real  name  of  the  town,  it  is  far  from  my  purpose  to  tell. 
I  christened  it  ''  Hide-and-Seek  Town  "  myself  one  day 
as  I  was  drawing  near  it,  and  observed  how  deliciously 
it  dodged  in  and  out  of  view  while  it  was  yet  miles  away. 
One  minute  it  stood  out  on  its  hill  like  a  village  of  light- 
houses on  a  promontory  of  the  sea,  the  next  it  skulked 
behind  an  oak  grove  and  was  gone,  then  peered  out 
again  with  its  head  of  meeting-house  spires,  and  then 
plunged  down  between  two  low  hills,  as  lost  as  if  it  had 
leaped  into  a  well ;  and  so  it  behaved  for  a  half  hour, 
its  white  houses  laughing  hke  white  teeth  in  a  roguish 
mouth,  as  we  vainly  strained  our  eyes  to  get  one  good 
sight  of  the  unknown  place  to  which  we  were  bound. 
You  can  come,  as  I  said,  within  a  mile  of  it  by  rail ; 
but  when  the  little  insignificant  train  drops  you  in  a 
silent  nook  at  the  entrance  of  a  wood,  and  then  crawls 
away  between  two  sandy  banks  of  sweet  fern  and  red 
lilies,  you  are  overwhelmed  with  a  sudden  sense  of  the 
utter  improbability  of  a  town  anywhere  within  reach. 
The  stage,  —  why  does  New  England  say  "  stage,"  and 
not  "coach"  ? — which  waits  for  you,  is  like  hundreds 
you  have  seen  before,  but  here  it  looks  odd,  as  if  it 
were  Cinderella's  chariot :  and  when  you  find  that  there 
are  nine  to  ride  outside,  besides  the  nine  in,  the  inex- 
plicableness  of  so  many  people  having  come  at  once 
startles  you.  They  become  seventeen  mysteries  imme- 
diately, and  you  forget  that    you  are  the  eighteenth. 


176  BITS   OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

No  questions  are  asked  as  to  your  destination  ;  with  a 
leisurely  manner  the  driver  puts  his  passengers  into  the 
coach  and  shuts  the  door  gently,  — no  hurry.  There  is 
a  mile  to  go  up  hill  before  you  reach  the  town.  On 
some  one  of  the  longest,  steepest  hills,  he  will  swing 
himself  round  in  a  marvellous  bit  of  amateur  acrobatism 
from  the  top  of  the  coach  to  the  lowest  step,  and,  put- 
ting long  arms  into  the  windows,  collect  the  fares,  and 
find  out  to  which  of  the  Hide-and-Seek  houses  you  wish 
to  go.  If  you  are  a  stranger  arriving  without  prejudices, 
and  ready  to  take  your  chance  anywhere,  it  is  a  beauti- 
ful thing  to  watch  the  impartiality  of  his  tone  in  giving 
to  you  the  names  of  the  different  hotels  and  boarding- 
houses.  The  most  jealous  and  exacting  landlord  could 
not  find  fault  with  him. 

At  the  end  of  his  enumerations  you  are  as  much  at  a 
loss  as  you  were  in  the  beginning,  and  probably  end  by 
jumping  out  before  the  first  house  at  which  the  stage 
stops.  Pages  have  been  written  about  the  inquisitive- 
ness  of  the  rural  New  Englander  ;  comparatively  httle 
has  been  said  about  his  faculty  of  reticence  at  will, 
which  is  quite  as  remarkable.  I  doubt  if  any  man  can 
be  found  to  match  him  in  a  series  of  evasive  and  non- 
committal replies.  This  habit  or  instinct  is  so  strong 
in  him,  that  it  often  acts  mechanically  when  he  would  not 
have  it,  as,  for  instance,  when  he  is  trying  to  tell  you 
the  road  to  a  place. 

There  is  a  mile  to  go  up  hill  before  you  reach  the 
town.  The  first  part  of  the  road  is  walled  on  the  right 
hand  by  a  wood,  —  a  thick  wall  of  oaks,  birches,  maples, 
pines,  chestnuts,  hickories,  beeches,  ashes,  spruces  and 
cornels  ;  yes,  all  these  growing  so  close  that  none  can 
grow  broad,  but  all  must  grow  high,  and,  stretch  up 
however  much  they  may,  their  branches  are  interwoven. 
This  is  one  of  the  great  pleasures  in  Hide-and-Seek 
Town,  —  the  unusual  variety  of  tree  growths  by  the 
road-sides  and  in  the  forests.  I  do  not  know  of  a  sin- 
gle New  England  tree  which  is  not  found  in  luxuriant 
abundance. 


HIDE-AXD-SEEK'  TOWX.  177 

On  the  left-hand  side  of  the  road  are  what  are  called 
by  the  men  who  own  them,  "pastures."  Considered  as 
pastures  from  an  animal's  point  of  view,  they  must  be 
disappointing- :  stones  for  bread  to  a  cruel  extent  they 
give.  Considered  as  landscape,  they  have,  to  the 
trained  eye,  a  charm  and  fascination  which  smooth,  ful- 
some meadow  levels  cannot  equal.  There  can  be  no 
more  exquisite  tones  of  color,  no  daintier  mosaic,  than 
one  sees  if  he  looks  attentively  on  an  August  day  at 
these  fields  of  gray  granite.  lichen-painted  bowlders 
lying  in  beds  of  light-green  ferns,  bordered  by  pink  and 
white  spiraeas,  and  lighted  up  by  red  hlies. 

The  stretches  of  stone  wall  tone  down  to  an  even 
gray  in  the  distances,  and  have  a  dignity  and  signifi- 
cance which  no  other  expedient  for  boundary-marking 
has  attained.  They  make  of  each  farm  a  little  walled 
principality,  of  each  field  an  approach  to  a  fortress  :  and 
if  one  thinks  of  the  patience  which  it  must  need  to  build 
them  by  the  mile,  they  seem  at  once  to  take  a  place 
among  enduring  records  or  race  memorials.  I  suppose 
that  a  hundred  years  would  make  httle  or  no  impression 
on  a  well-built  stone  wall.  I  know  that  I  spent  many 
happy  hours  in  my  childhood  on  one  which  was  even 
then  very  old,  and  must  be  now  well  on  the  w^ay  to  its 
centennial. 

There  was  a  mile  to  go  up  hill.  We  have  come  half 
wa}'.  The  wood  wall  has  ceased  :  open  fields  on  either 
side  give  us  long  stretches  of  view  to  the  north  and  to 
the  south.  The  road-sides  are  as  thick-set  with  green 
growths  as  the  sides  of  English  lanes.  To  my  think- 
ing they  are  more  beautiful  :  copses  of  young  locusts, 
birches,  thickets  of  blackbern,-  and  raspberry  bushes, 
with  splendid  waving  tops  like  pennons  ;  spiraea, 
golden  rod.  purple  thistle,  sumach  with  red  pompons, 
and  woodbine  flinging  itself  over  each  and  all  in  posi- 
tions of  inimitable  grace  and  abandon.  How  comes  it 
that  the  New  Englander  learns  to  carry  himself  so  stiff- 
ly, in  spite  of  the  perpetual  dancing-master  lessons  ck 
his  road-sides  ?  With  each  rod  thai  we  rise  the  out 
12 


T78  BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

look  grows  wider ;  the  uplands  seem  to  roll  away  far- 
ther and  farther  ;  the  horizons  look  like  sea-horizons, 
distant  and  misty,  and  the  white  houses  of  the  town 
might  be  signal  stations.  Presently  we  come  out  upon 
a  strange  rocky  plateau,  small,  with  abrupt  sides  falling 
off  in  all  directions  but  one,  like  cliff  walls.  This  is 
the  centre  of  the  town.  It  is  simply  a  flattened  expanse 
of  a  mountain  spur.  The  mountain  itself  is  only  three 
thousand  feet  high,  and  this  plateau  is  nearly  half  way 
up. 

It  would  seem  a  brave  thing,  the  climbing  up  here  to 
build  frame-houses  to  take  the  brunt  of  such  winds  as 
sweep  across  this  ridge  ;  but  the  Indians  were  so  much 
fiercer  than  the  winds,  that  I  dare  say  those  early  set- 
tlers never  observed  the  howling  of  the  gales  which  to- 
day keep  many  a  nervous  person  wide-awake  of  nights. 
The  mountain  was  a  great  rendezvous  of  hostile  Indians 
in  the  days  when  the  Colony  of  Massachusetts  Bay  was 
fighting  hand  to  hand  for  life.  There  are  some  old,  tat- 
tered leather-bound  books  behind  the  counter  of  "  the 
store,"  which  are  full  of  interesting  records  of  that  time. 
There  are  traditions  of  Governors'  visits  a  hundred 
years  before  the  Revolution  ;  and  a  record  of  purchase 
of  twelve  square  miles,  "  not  including  the  mountain," 
for  twenty-three  pounds,  from  three  sachems  of  the 
Nipmucks.  In  1743  the  first  settlement  was  made  on 
the  present  town  site,  by  a  man  who,  being  too  poor  to 
buy,  petitioned  the  Colonial  Government  to  give  him 
the  land  for  his  home,  setting  forth,  "that  your  peti- 
tioner, though  a  poor  man,  yet  he  humbly  apprehends 
he  hath  the  character  of  an  Honest  and  Laborious 
man,  and  is  minded  to  settle  himself  and  his  Family 
theieon." 

It  was  given  to  him  on  the  condition  that  he  should 
keep  a  house  for  the  accommodation  of  travellers 
"going  West!"  Immortal  phrase,  which  only  the 
finality  of  an  ocean  can  stay. 

Twenty  years  later,  the  handful  of  settlers  voted  "  to 
hire  four  days'  preaching  in  May  next,  to  begin  ye  first 


HIDE-AND-SEEK  TOWN  179 

Sabbath,  if  a  minister  can  be  conveniently  procured," 
and  that  Christian  charity  was  as  clearly  understood 
then  as  to-day  may  be  seen  by  another  record  a  few 
pages  further  on,  of  the  town's  vote  to  pass  on  to  the 
next  settlement,  a  poor  tramp  with  his  family  :  "  Hepzi- 
bah,  his  wife,  Joseph,  Isaac,  Thankful,  Jeduthun, 
Jonathan,  and  Molly,  their  children."  There  is  an  inex- 
plicable fascination  in  this  faded  old  record  on  the 
ragged  page.  Poor  fellow ;  a  wife  and  six  children  in 
such  a  wilderness,  with  no  visible  means  of  support! 
Why  did  they  call  that  first  girl  "  Thankful "  .?  And 
what  can  it  be  in  the  sound  of  the  word  Jeduthun,  which 
makes  one  so  sure  that,  of  all  the  six  children,  Jeduthun 
was  the  forlornest  ?  As  we  approach  the  Revolutionary 
period,  the  records  grow  more  distinct.  There  is  even 
a  sort  of  defiant  flourish  in  the  very  tails  to  the  y's  and 
g's,  with  which  that  ancient  clerk,  God  rest  his  soul, 
records  that  the  town  had  voted,  "  not  to  pay  the  Min- 
ute Men  for  training  ;  "  and  that  the  minister  is  to  be 
"inquired  of"  for  his  conduct  in  "refusing  to  call  a 
Fast,"  and  for  his  "  Publick  Discourses  to  the  Minute 
Men,  as  tending  to  discourage  people  in  defending  their 
Rights  and  Liberties,''  and,  "  for  taking  cattle  suspected 
to  be  Colonel  Jones's."  A  wide  range  of  dehnquencies, 
surely !  A  Httle  later,  a  committee  is  appointed  to 
"keep  him  out  of  the  pulpit."  One  wonders  if  in  those 
days  ministers  were  in  the  habit,  or  under  the  necessity, 
of  knocking  down  in  the  aisles  all  parishioners  who 
didn't  wish  to  hear  them  preach. 

Even  while  the  town  was  training  its  Minute  Men, 
the  records  open,  "  In  his  Majesty's  name  ;  "  but  a  few 
months  later,  comes  a  significant  page,  beginning,  "  In 
the  name  of  the  Government  and  People  of  the  Province 
of  the  Massachusetts  Bay."  This  page  records  the 
vote  of  the  town,  "  To  concur  with  the  Continental  Con- 
gress in  case  they  should  Declare  Independence." 
Five  months  later  is  a  most  honorable  record  of  a  citi- 
zen who  went  to  the  Provincial  Congress,  rendered  his 
account  for  fifty  pounds  for  his  expenses,  and  then,  so 


l8o  BITS  OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

that  no  heirs  of  his  should  demand  it  in  future,  pre- 
sented it  to  the  town  in  a  formal  receipt,  "from  him 
who  wishes  them  every  good  connected  with  this  and 
the  F'uture  State."  Could  any  strait  of  the  Republic 
to-day  develop  such  a  Congressman  as  that  ?  After 
spending  a  few  hours  in  looking  over  these  old  records, 
one  feels  an  irresistible  drawing  toward  the  old  grave- 
yard, where  sleep  the  clerk  and  his  fellow-townsmen. 
It  is  the  "sighthest"  place  in  the  town.  On  the  apex 
of  the  ridge,  where  the  very  backbone  of  the  hill  sticks 
out  in  bare  granite  vertebrae,  it  commands  the  entire 
horizon,  and  gives  such  a  sweep  of  view  of  both  land 
and  sky  as  is  rarely  found  from  a  hill  over  which  runs  a 
daily  used  road.  By  common  consent,  this  summit  is 
called  Sunset  Hill ;  it  might  as  well  have  been  named 
for  the  Sunrise  also,  for,  from  it,  one  sees  as  far  east  as 
west ;  but  the  Sunrise  has  no  worshippers,  and  all  men 
worship  the  Sunset.  In  summer,  there  are  hundreds  of 
strangers  in  Hide-and-Seek  Town  ;  and  every  evening, 
one  sees  on  Sunset  Hill,  crowds  who  have  come  up 
there  to  wait  while  the  sun  goes  down  ;  chatting  lovers 
who  see  in  the  golden  hazy  distance  only  the  promised 
land  of  the  morrow ;  and  silent  middle-aged  people  to 
whom  the  same  hazy  distance  seems  the  golden  land 
they  long  ago  left  behind.  The  grave-yard  lies  a  few 
steps  down  on  the  south-west  slope  of  this  hill.  In 
August,  it  is  gay  with  golden  rods,  and  the  old  gray 
stones  are  more  than  half  sunk  in  high  purple  grasses. 
The  sun  lies  full  on  it  all  day  long,  save  in  the  south- 
west corner,  where  a  clump  of  pines  and  birches  keeps 
a  spot  of  perpetual  shade.  Many  of  the  stones  are  lit- 
tle more  than  a  mosaic  of  green  and  gray  Hchens.  Old 
Mortality  himself  could  not  restore  their  inscriptions. 
The  oldest  one  which  is  legible  is  dated  1786,  and 
runs : — 

"  Thy  word  commands  our  flesh  to  dust; 

Return,  ye  sons  of  men  ; 
All  nations  rose  from  earth  at  first, 

And  turn  to  earth  again." 


HIDE-AND-SEEK  TOWN.  l8l 

Another,  quite  near,  bearin^^  the  same  date,  takes  th« 
same  uncomfortable  license  of  rhyme  :  — 

"  Alas  !  this  brittle  clay, 
Which  built  our  bodies  first, 
And  every  month,  and  every  day, 
'Tis  mouldering  back  to  dust  1  " 

Seven  years  later,  a  man,  who  was,  as  his  grave-stone 
sets  forth,  "  inhumanly  murdered  "  by  one  of  his  towns- 
men, was  laid  to  rest,  under  the  following  extraordinary 
stanza :  — 

"  Passengers,  behold  !     My  friends,  and  view, 
Breathless  I  lie  ;  no  more  with  you  ; 
Hurried  from  life ;  sent  to  the  grave  ; 
Jesus  my  only  hope  to  save  ; 
No  warning  had  of  my  sad  fate ; 
Till  dire  the  stroke,  alas  1  too  late  !  " 

Side  by  side  with  him  sleeps  a  neighbor,  dead  in  the 
same  year,  whose  philosophical  relatives  took  unhand- 
some opportunity  of  his  head-stone  to  give  this  post- 
humous snub  :  — 

"  How  valued  once,  avails  thee  not ; 

To  whom  related,  or  by  whom  begot ; 

A  little  dust  is  all  remains  of  thee ; 

'Tis  all  thou  art,  —  and  all  I  soon  must  be." 

The  sudden  relenting  candor  of  the  last  phrase  but 
imperfectly  atones  for  the  gratuitous  derogation  of  the 
first  two  lines.  Surely,  in  those  old  days  only  the  very 
queer  survived  !  And,  among  the  queerest,  must  have 
been  the  man  who  could  carve  upon  a  fellow-man's 
tomb  such  a  light  tripping  measure  as  this  :  — 

"  This  languishing  head  is  at  rest ; 

Its  thinking  and  aching  are  o'er. 
This  quiet,  immovable  breast 

Is  heaved  by  affliction  no  more. 
This  heart  is  no  longer  the  seat 

Of  trouble  and  sorrowing  pain  ; 
It  ceases  to  flutter  and  beat ; 

It  never  will  flutter  again." 


1 82  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

But  one  cannot  afford  to  spend  in  the  old  grave-yard^ 
many  of  his  summer  days  in  Hide-and-Seek  Town. 
Fascinating  as  are  these  dead  men's  sunny  silent  homes 
with  the  quaint  inscriptions  on  their  stone  lintels,  there 
is  a  greater  fascination  in  the  sunny  silent  homes  of  the 
living,  and  the  roads  leading  to  and  fro  among  them. 
North,  south,  east,  and  west,  the  roads  run,  cross,  dou- 
ble, and  turn,  and  double  again  ;  as  many  and  as  intri- 
cate as  the  fine-spun  lines  of  a  spider's  web.  You  shall 
go  no  more  than  six  or  seven  miles  in  any  direction 
without  climbing  up,  or  creeping  down,  to  some  village  ; 
and  the  outlying  farms  of  each  meet  midway,  and  join 
hands  in  good  fellowship. 

There  is  a  fine  and  unbroken  net-work  of  industry 
and  comfort  over  the  whole  region.  Not  a  poverty- 
stricken  house  to  be  seen  ;  not  one  ;  not  a  single  long 
stretch  of  lonely  wilderness  ;  even  across  the  barrenest 
and  rockiest  hill-tops,  and  through  the  densest  woods, 
run  the  compact  lines  of  granite  walls,  setting  the  sign 
and  seal  of  ownership  and  care  on  every  acre.  The 
houses  are  all  of  the  New  England  type  ;  high,  narrow- 
angled,  white,  ugly,  and  comfortable.  They  seem 
almost  as  silent  as  the  mounds  in  the  grave-yard,  with 
every  Wind  shut  tight,  save  one,  or  perhaps  two,  at  the 
back,  where  the  kitchen  is ;  with  the  front  door  locked, 
and  guarded  by  a  pale  but  faithful  "  Hydrangy  ;"  they 
have  somehow  the  expression  of  a  person  with  lips  com- 
pressed and  finger  laid  across  them,  rigid  with  resolve 
to  keep  a  secret"  It  is  the  rarest  thing  to  see  a  sign  of 
life,  as  you  pass  by  on  a  week  day.  Even  the  hens 
step  gingerly,  as  if  fearing  to  make  a  noise  on  the  grass  ; 
the  dog  may  bark  a  little  at  you  if  he  be  young ;  but,  if 
he  is  old,  he  has  learned  the  ways  of  the  place,  and  only 
turns  his  head  languidly  at  the  noise  of  wheels.  At 
sunset,  you  may  possibly  see  the  farmer  sitting  on  the 
porch,  with  a  newspaper.  But  his  chair  is  tipped  back 
against  the  side  of  the  house;  the  newspaper  is  folded 
on  his  knee,  and  his  eyes  are  shut.  Calm  and  blessed 
folk!     If  they  only  knew  how  great  is  the  gift  of  their 


HIDE-AND-SEEK  TOWN.  183 

quiet,  they  would  take  it  more  gladly,  and  be  serene 
instead  of  dull,  thankful  instead  of  discontented. 

They  have  their  tragedies,  however  ;  tragedies  as  ter- 
rible as  any  that  have  ever  been  written  or  lived. 
Wherever  are  two  human  hearts,  there  are  the  elements 
ready  for  fate  to  work  its  utmost  with,  for  weal  or  woe. 
On  one  of  these  sunny  hill-sides  is  a  small  house,  left 
unpainted  so  many  years,  that  it  has  grown  gray  as  a 
granite  bowlder.  Its  doors  are  always  shut,  its  win- 
dows tightly  curtained  to  the  sill.  The  fence  around  it 
is  falling  to  pieces,  the  gates  are  off  the  hinges  ;  old 
lilac  bushes  with  bluish  mouldy-looking  leaves  crowd 
the  yard  as  if  trying  their  best  to  cover  up  something. 

For  years,  no  ray  of  sunlight  has  entered  this  house. 
You  might  knock  long  and  loud,  and  you  would  get  no 
answer  ;  you  would  pass  on,  sure  that  nobody  could  be 
hving  there.  No  one  is  living  there.  Yet,  in  some  one 
of  the  rooms  sits  or  Hes  a  woman  who  is  not  dead. 
She  is  past  eighty.  When  she  was  a  girl,  she  loved  a 
man  who  loved  her  sister,  and  not  her.  Perhaps  then, 
as  now,  men  made  love  idly,  first  to  one,  next  to  an- 
other, even  among  sisters.  At  any  rate,  this  girl  so 
loved  the  man  who  was  to  be  her  sister's  husband,  that 
it  was  known  and  whispered  about.  And  when  the  day 
came  for  the  wedding,  the  minister,  being,  perhaps,  a 
nervous  man,  and  having  this  poor  girl's  sad  fate  much 
in  his  thoughts,  made  the  terrible  mistake  of  calling  her 
name  instead  of  her  sister's,  in  the  ceremony.  As  soon 
as  the  poor  creature  heard  her  name,  she  uttered  a 
loud  shriek  and  fled.  Strangely  enough,  no  one  had 
the  presence  of  mind  to  interrupt  the  minister  and  set 
his  blunder  right,  and  the  bride  was  actually  married, 
not  by  her  own  name,  but  by  her  sister's.  From  that 
day  the  sister  shunned  every  one.  She  insisted  that 
the  bridegroom  had  been  married  to  her;  but  she  wished 
never  again  to  see  a  human  face.  She  is  past  eighty, 
and  has  not  yet  been  able  to  die.  Winter  before  last, 
in  the  time  of  terrible  cold,  it  was  noticed  for  a  day  or 
two  that  no  smoke  came  out  of  the  chimney  of  this  old 


iS4  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

house.  On  the  fourth  day,  tlie  nei^ihbors  broke  open 
the  door  and  went  in.  They  found  the  woman  lying  in- 
sensible on  the  floor,  nearly  frozen.  A  few  embers 
were  smouldering  on  the  hearth.  When  they  roused  her 
to  consciousness,  she  cursed  them  fiercely  for  having 
disturbed  her;,  but,  as  the  warmth  from  fire  and  wine 
began  to  steal  into  her  blood,  she  thanked  them, — the 
only  words  of  thankfulness  heard  from  her  lips  for  a 
half  century.  After  all,  she  did  not  want  to  die  !  She 
has  relatives  who  go  to  the  house  often  and  carry  her 
food.  She  knows  their  voices,  and,  after  parleying  with 
them  a  few  minutes  through  the  closed  door,  will  open 
it,  take  the  food,  and  sometimes  allow  them  to  come  in. 
1  have  twice  seen  her  standing,  at  twilight,  in  the  dank 
shade  of  her  little  yard,  and  fumbling  aimlessly  at  the 
leaves  of  the  lilacs.  She  did  not  raise  her  head,  nor 
look  toward  the  road,  and  I  dared  not  speak  to  her.  A 
gliding  shape  in  a  graveyard  at  midnight  would  not  have 
seemed  half  so  uncanny,  so  little  of  this  world. 

He  who  stays  one  month  in  Hide-and-Seek  Town 
may  take  each  day  a  new  drive,  and  go  on  no  day  over 
a  road  he  has  seen  before.  A  person  of  a  statistical 
turn  of  mind,  who  knows  the  region  well,  has  taken 
pains  to  find  this  out.  We  are  more  indebted  than  we 
reahze  to  this  type  of  person.  Their  facts  furnish  cloth 
for  our  fancies  to  come  abroad  in.  There  are  souls  of 
such  make  that,  to  them,  any  one  of  these  roads  must 
seem  enough  for  a  summer  ;  for  that  matter,  enough  for 
any  number  of  summers  ;  and,  in  trying  to  frame  a  few 
of  their  beauties  in  words,  to  speak  of  them  by  the  mile 
would  seem  as  queer  and  clumsy  as  if  one,  in  describing 
a  sunset,  should  pull  out  his  almanac  and  remind  you 
that  there  were  likely  to  be  three  hundred  and  sixty  odd 
of  them  in  a  year.  Yet,  there  is  no  doubt  thd.t,  to  the 
average  mind,  the  statement  that  there  are  thirty  dif- 
ferent drives  in  a  town  would  be  more  impressive  than 
it  would  be  if  one  could  produce  on  his  page,  as  on  a 
canvas,  a  perfect  picture  of  the  beauty  of  one,  or  even 


HIDE-AND-SEEK  TOWN.  185 

many  of  its  landscapes  ;  to  choose  which  one  of  the 
thirty  roads  one  would  best  try  to  describe  to  win  a 
stranger's  care  and  liking,  is  as  hard  as  to  choose  be- 
tween children.  There  is  such  an  excelling  quahty  in 
each.  After  all,  choice  here,  as  elsewhere,  is  a  ques- 
tion of  magnetism.  Places  have  their  affinities  to  men, 
as  much  as  men  to  each  other ;  and  fields  and  lanes 
have  their  moods  also.  I  have  brought  one  friend  to 
meet  another  friend,  and  neither  of  them  would  speak  ; 
I  have  taken  a  friend  to  a  hillside,  and  I  myself  have 
perceived  that  the  hillside  grew  dumb  and  its  face 
clouded. 

If  I  may  venture,  without  ever  after  feehng  like  a 
traitor  to  the  rest,  to  give  chief  name  to  one  or  two  of 
the  Hide-and-Seek  roads,  I  would  speak  of  two,  —  one 
is  a  highway,  the  other  is  a  lane.  The  highway  leads 
in  a  north-westerly  direction  to  a  village  on  the  shore  of 
a  lake.  It  is  seven  miles  long.  Three  of  those  miles 
are  through  pine  woods, —  "the  long  woods,"  they  are 
called,  with  curt  literalness,  by  the  people  who  tell  you 
your  way.  Not  so  literal  either,  if  you  take  the  word 
at  its  best,  for  these  miles  of  hushed  pines  are  as  solemn 
as  eternity.  The  road  is  wide  and  smooth.  Three 
carriages,  perhaps  four,  might  go  abreast  in  it  through 
these  pine  stretches.  There  is  no  fence  on  either  side, 
and  the  brown  carpet  of  fallen  pine-needles  fringes  out 
to  the  very  ruts  of  the  wheels. 

Who  shall  reckon  our  debt  to  the  pine  ?  It  takes 
such  care  of  us,  it  must  love  us,  wicked  as  we  are.  It 
builds  us  roofs  ;  no  others  keep  out  sun  so  well.  It 
spreads  a  finer  than  Persian  mat  under  our  feet,  pro- 
vides for  us  endless  music  and  a  balsam  of  heahng  in 
the  air;  then,  when  it  finds  us  in  barren  places  where 
bread  is  hard  to  get,  it  loads  itself  down  with  cones  full 
of  a  sweet  and  wholesome  food,  and  at  last,  in  its  death, 
it  makes  our  very  hearthstones  ring  with  its  resonant 
song  of  cheer  and  mirth. 

Before  entering  these  woods,  you  have  driven   past 


1 86  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

farms  and  farmhouses,  and  meadow  lands  well  tilled ; 
old  unpruned  apple  orchards,  where  the  climax  of  un- 
gainliness  comes  to  have  a  sort  of  pathetic  grace  ;  fields 
of  oats  and  barley  and  Indian  corn  and  granite  bowl- 
ders, and  not  an  inch  of  roadside  all  the  way  which  is 
not  thick  grown  with  white  clover.  Rabbit's  foot.  May- 
weed, shepherd's  purse,  ferns,  blackberry,  raspberr}'-, 
elderberry,  and  here  and  there  laurel,  and  in  Sertember 
blue  gentians.  There  is  one  bit  of  meadow  I  recollect 
on  this  road.  It  is  set  in  walls  of  pines  ;  four  little 
streams  zigzag  through  it.  You  cross  all  four  on  narrow 
bridges,  in  a  space  of  two  or  three  rods  ;  the  strips  of 
meadow  and  strips  of  brooks  seem  braided  together  into 
a  strand  of  green  and  blue,  across  which  is  flung  your 
road  of  gray,  bordered  with  dark  alders.  This  is  the 
way  it  must  look  to  a  bird  flying  over. 

The  lane  is  one  of  many  ways  to  a  village  on  a  hill 
lying  west  of  this  town.  The  hill  is  so  high  that,  as 
you  look  westward,  its  spires  and  housetops  stand  out 
against  the  sky,  with  not  even  a  tree  in  the  background. 
In  this  lane  nature  has  run  riot.  It  is  to  all  the  rest  of 
the  Hide-and-Seek  roads  what  California  is  to  New 
England.  All  the  trees  and  plants  are  miUionnaires,  — 
twenty,  thirty  per  cent  interest  on  every  square  foot. 
One  ignorant  of  botany  has  no  right  to  open  his  mouth 
about  it,  and  only  a  master  of  color  should  go  into  it  to 
paint.  It  is  an  outburst,  a  tangle,  an  overflow,  of 
greens,  of  whites,  of  purples,  of  yellows.  For  rods  at 
a  time  there  are  solid  knitted  and  knotted  banks  of 
vines  on  either  hand,  —  woodbine,  groundnut  vine,  wild 
or  "false"  buckwheat,  clivis,  green-brier,  and  wild 
grape.  The  woodbine  wreaths  the  stone  walls ;  the 
groundnut  vine  springs  from  weed  to  weed,  bush  to 
bush,  tree  to  tree,  fantastically  looping  them  all  to- 
gether, and  then,  at  last,  leaps  off  at  top  of  a  golden 
rod  or  sumach  bough,  waving  a  fine  spiral  taper  tendril 
a  foot  long,  loose  in  the  air.  The  false  buckwheat, 
being  lightest,  gets   a-top  of   the   rest  and  scrambles 


HIDE-AND-SEEK  TOWN.  187 

along  fastest,  making  in  July  a  dainty  running  ara- 
besque of  fine,  white  flowers  above  every  thing  else. 
The  clivis  and  the  green-brier  fill  in  wherever  they  can 
get  a  corner.  They  are  not  so  pushing.  Then  comes 
the  wild  grape,  lawless  master  of  every  situation. 
There  is  a  spot  on  this  lane  where  it  has  smothered 
and  well-nigh  killed  one  young  oak,  and  one  young 
maple  and  a  sumach  thicket.  They  have  their  heads 
out  still,  and  very  beautiful  they  look,  —  the  shining, 
jagged-edged  oak  leaves,  and  the  pointed  maples,  and 
the  slender  sumachs,  waving  above  and  in  the  matted 
canopies  of  the  grape ;  but  they  will  never  be  trees. 
The  grapevine  is  strongest.  This  lane  leads  over  high 
hill-crests,  from  which  you  have  ever-changing  views, — 
now  wide  sweeps  to  the  south  horizon,  now  dainty  and 
wood-framed  bits  of  near  valleys  or  lakes,  now  out- 
cropping granite  ledges  and  spots  strewn  thick  with 
granite  bowlders,  as  grand  and  stony  as  Stonehenge  it- 
self. Now  the  lane  dips  down  into  hollows  in  woods 
so  thick  that  for  rods  the  branches  more  than  meet  over 
your  head  ;  then  it  turns  a  corner  and  suddenly  fades 
away  in  the  queer  front  door-yard  of  a  farm-house 
flanked  by  orchards  and  cornfields  ;  then  it  dips  again 
into  a  deeper  hollow  and  denser  wood,  with  thick 
undergrowths,  which  brush  your  wheels  like  hands 
thrust  out  to  hold  you  back  ;  then  it  comes  out  on  a 
meadow  stretch,  where  the  lines  of  alders  and  milk- 
weeds, and  eupatoriums  and  asters,  border  it  so  close 
that  you  may  pick,  on  any  September  day,  your  hands 
full  of  flowers,  if  you  like,  by  merely  leaning  out  of 
your  carriage ;  not  only  flowers,  but  ferns,  — high  three- 
branched  brakes  and  graceful  ostrich-plume  ferns  you 
can  reach  from  your  seat.  These  are  but  glimpses  I 
have  given  of  any  chance  half-mile  on  this  lane.  There 
are  myriads  of  beautiful  lesser  things  all  along  it  whose 
names  I  do  not  know,  but  whose  faces  are  as  familiar 
as  if  I  had  been  born  in  the  lane  and  had  never  gone 
away.     There  are  also  numberless  pictures  which  come 


i88  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME} 

crowding,  —  of  spots  and  nooks,  and  pictures  on  other 
roads  and  lanes  in  this  rarest  of  regions.  No  one,  who 
knows  and  loves  summer,  can  summer  in  Hide-and-Seek 
Town  without  bearing  away  such  pictures  ;  if  he  neither 
knows  nor  loves  summer,  if  he  have  only  a  retina  and 
not  a  soul,  he  must,  perforce,  recollect  some  of  them. 
A  certain  bridge,  for  instance,  three  planks  wide,  under 
which  goes  a  brook  so  deep,  so  dark,  it  shines  not  like 
water,  but  like  a  burnished  shield.  It  comes  out  from 
a  wood ;  and,  in  the  black  shadow  of  the  trees  along 
the  edge  of  the  brook  stand,  in  August,  scarlet  cardinal 
flowers,  ranks  on  ranks,  two  feet  high,  reflected  in  the 
burnished  shield  as  in  a  glass  ;  or  a  meadow  there  is 
which  is  walled  on  three  sides  by  high  woods,  and  has 
a  procession  of  tall  bulrushes  for  ever  sauntering  through 
it  with  lazy  spears  and  round-handled  halberds,  points 
down,  and  hundreds  of  yellow  sunflowers  looking  up 
and  down  in  the  grass  ;  or  a  wood  there  is,  which  has 
all  of  a  sudden,  in  its  centre,  a  great  cleared  space, 
where  ferns  have  settled  themselves  as  in  a  tropic,  and 
grown  into  solid  thickets  and  jungles  in  the  darkness  ; 
or  another,  which  has  along  the  roadside  for  many  rods 
an  unbroken  line  of  light  green,  feathery  ferns,  so  close 
set  it  seems  that  not  one  more  could  have  grown  up  with- 
out breaking  down  a  neighbor ;  under  these  a  velvety 
line  of  pine-tree  moss,  and  the  moss  dotted  thick  with 
"  wintergreen  "  in  flower  and  in  fruit;  or  a  lake,  with 
three  sides  of  soft  woods  or  fields,  and  the  fourth  side  an 
unbroken  forest  slope  two  thousand,  feet  up  the  north 
wall  of  the  mountain.  These  are  a  few  which  come 
first  to  my  thought ;  others  crowd  on,  but  I  force  mem- 
ory and  fancy  together  back  into  the  strait-jacket  of  the 
statistical  person,  and  content  myself  with  repeating 
that  there  are  thirty  different  drives  in  Hide-and-Seek 
Town ! 

Next  winter,  however,  memory  and  fancy  will  have 
their  way;  and,  as  we  sit  cowering  over  fires,  and  the 
snow  piles  up  outside  our  window-sills,  we  shall  gaze 


HIDE-AND-SEEK  TOWN.  189 

dreamily  into  the  glowing  coals,  and,  living  the  summer 
over  again,  shall  recall  it  in  a  minuteness  of  joy,  for 
which  summer  days  were  too  short  and  summer  light 
too  strong.  Then,  w'hen  joy  becomes  reverie,  and 
reverie  takes  shape,  a  truer  record  can  be  written,  and 
its  first  page  shall  be  called 

A     ROAD-SIDE. 


WHITE    CLOVER. 

In  myriad  snowy  chalices  of  sweet 

Thou  spread'st  by  dusty  ways  a  banquet  fine, 

So  fine  that  vulgar  crowds  of  it  no  sign 

Observe  ;  nay,  trample  it  beneath  their  feet. 

O,  dainty  and  unsullied  one  !  no  meet 

Interpretation  I  of  thee  divine. 

Although  all  summer  long  I  quaff  thy  wine, 

And  never  pass  thee  but  to  reverent  greet, 

And  pause  in  wonder  at  the  miracle 

Of  thee,  so  fair,  and  yet  so  meekly  low. 

Mayhap  thou  art  a  saintly  Princess,  vowed, 

In  token  of  some  grief  which  thee  befell, 

This  pilgrimage  of  ministry  to  go, 

And  never  speak  thy  lineage  aloud  I 


II. 

WILD    GRAPE. 

Thou  gypsy  camper,  how  earnest  thou  here. 

With  thy  vagabond  habits  full  in  sight. 

In  this  rigid  New  England's  noonday  light? 

I  laugh  half  afraid  at  thy  riotous  cheer, 

In  these  silent  roads  so  stony  and  drear ; 

Thy  breathless  tendrils  flushed  scarlet  and  bright 

Thy  leaves  blowing  back  dishevelled  and  white, 

Thyself  in  mad  wrestle  with  every  thing  near ; 

No  pine-tree  so  high,  no  oak-tree  so  strong, 

That  it  can  resist  thy  drunken  embrace ; 

Together,  like  bacchanals  reeling  along, 

Staying  each  other,  ye  go  at  a  pace, 

A.nd  the  roadside  laughs  and  reaps  all  your  wealth  : 

Thou  prince  of  highwaymen  !     I  drink  thy  health  I 


190  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

III. 

MILKWEED. 

O,  patient  creature  with  a  peasant  face, 

Burnt  by  the  summer  sun,  begrimed  with  stains, 

And  standing  humbly  in  the  dusty  lanes  ! 

There  seems  a  mystery  in  thy  work  and  place, 

Which  crowns  thee  with  significance  and  grace ; 

Whose  is  the  millc  that  fills  thy  faithful  veins  ? 

What  royal  nursling  comes  at  night  and  drains 

Unscorned  the  food  of  the  plebeian  race  ? 

By  day  I  mark  no  living  thing  which  rests 

On  thee,  save  buttei-flies  of  gold  and  brown, 

Who  turn  from  flowers  that  are  more  fair,  more  sweety 

And,  crowding  eagerly,  sink  fluttering  down, 

And  hang,  like  jewels  flashing  in  the  heat. 

Upon  thy  splendid  rounded  purple  breasts. 


THE   MIRACLE  PLAY  OF  1870.  19 1 


THE   MIRACLE   PLAY  OF   1870,  IN  BETH- 
LEHEM,   NEW   HAMPSHIRE. 

ONE  does  not  need  to  go  to  Ammergau.  On  a  night, 
not  of  appointment  beforehand,  so  far  as  we  knew, 
we  went  to  sleep  in  Bethlehem,  New  Hampshire.  We 
were  content,  but  not  expectant.  Ranges  of  mountains, 
solid,  blue,  and  stately  hedging  us  round,  yet  leaving 
open  for  our  untiring  gaze  so  wide  a  circle,  that,  at  its 
outer  rim,  even  in  clearest  days,  lingers  a  purple  haze  ; 
near  fields  of  brown  ferns,  scarlet  cornels,  and  gray 
bowlders  frosted  with  myriad  lichens ;  woods,  spicy  and 
sheltered  with  firs,  soft  under  foot  with  unnumbered 
mosses  and  mats  of  Linnaea,  and  rich  in  all  sorts  of 
forest  growths  of  bush  and  shrub  and  low  flowering 
things  :  all  this  seemed  enough.  We  went  to  sleep,  as 
I  say  content,  but  not  expectant  of  more  than  we  had 
had.  We  heard  no  sound  in  the  night.  We  made  no 
baste  in  the  morning. 

With  the  dehcious  leisureliness  which  wraps  solitary 
people  in  the  warm,  autumn  mountain  weather,  we  set 
ourselves  to  beginning  the  day,  and  by  chance  looked 
out  of   our  window. 

Like  children  at  sight  of  a  merry  juggler's  show,  we 
first  shouted  with  delight,  then  drew  in  long,  silent 
breaths,  with  bewilderment  too  like  awe  to  find  easy 
shape  in  speech.  O  whence  !  O  who  !  How  had  their 
feet  passed  by  so  noiselessly  ?  Who  had  touched  with 
this  enchantment  every  leaf  of  every  tree  which  stood 
within  our  sight?  Every  maple-tree  blazed  at  top  with 
tint  of  scarlet  or  cherry  or  orange  or  pale  yellow 
Every  ash-tree  had  turned  from  green  to  dark  purple  oi 


192  BITS   OF  TEA  VEL  AT  HO  MA. 

to  pale  straw-color.  Every  birch-tree  shimmwed  and 
quivered  in  the  sun,  as  if  gold-pieces  were  strung  along 
its  branches :  basswoods  were  flecked  with  white  ; 
beeches  were  brown  and  yellow ,  poplars  were  marked 
and  spotted  with  vermilion ;  sumachs  had  become  lad- 
ders, and  bars,  and  fringes  of  fire  ;  not  a  single  tree 
was  left  of  soHd,  dark  green,  except  the  pines  and  the 
larches  and  the  firs  ;  and  they  also  seemed  to  have 
shared  in  the  transformation,  looking  darker  and  greener 
than  ever,  as  a  setting  for  these  masses  of  flashing 
color  Single  trees  in  fields,  near  and  far,  looked  like 
great  he-wn  jewels;  with  light  behind  them,  the  tint 
flickered  and  waved  as  it  does  in  transparent  stones 
held  up  to  the  sun.  When  the  wind  shook  them,  it  was 
like  nothing  but  the  tremulousness  of  distant  seas  burn- 
ing under  sunset.  The  same  trees,  filling  in  by  tens  of 
thousands  in  spaces  of  the  forests,  looked  not  like  any 
thing  which  we  know  and  name  as  gem,  but  as  one 
could  fancy  mid-air  spaces  might  be  and  look  in  some 
supernatural  realm  whence  the  souls  of  ruby  and  ame- 
thyst and  topaz  come  and  go,  taking  for  a  little  while 
the  dusty  shapes  of  small  stones  on  earth. 

All  this  in  this  one  night !  To  north,  to  south,  to 
east,  to  west,  it  was  the  same.  Miles  away,  at  the  very 
feet  of  the  farthest  green  mountains,  shone  the  glory ; 
within  our  hands'  reach,  at  neighbors'  gates,  stood  the 
stately  splendor. 

With  reverent  eyes  we  went  close  into  territory  after 
territory  ;  coming  nearer,  we  found  that  the  scarlet  or 
the  claret  or  the  crimson  or  the  orange,  which  we  had 
seen  from  the  distance  as  one  pure,  uniform  tint,  was  no 
longer  scarlet  or  claret  or  crimson  or  orange,  but  all  of 
these,  and  more  than  all  of  these,  shading  up  and  down 
and  into  each  other  by  gradations  indistinguishably  fine 
and  beyond  all  counting;  alternating  and  interrupting 
each  other,  in  single  leaves  or  in  clusters  on  boughs, 
with  an  infinity  of  change  and  combination  almost  like 
caprice  or  frolic. 

I    have    seen  our   Western   prairies   in   their   June 


THE  MIRACLE  PLAY  OF  1870.  193 

flowering;  I  have  seen  also  the  mosaic  fields  of  blos- 
soms in  the  Ampezzo  Pass,  at  which  one  cannot  so  much 
as  look  without  shaded  eyes,  and  from  which  Titian  learnt 
color  :  I  have  seen  old  altar  fronts  on  which  generations 
and  centuries  of  kings  have  lavished  jewels,  till  they  are 
so  thick  set  that  not  one  more  dot  can  be  added  :  but  I 
have  never  seen  such  flaming,  shading,  shaping,  chang- 
ing, lavishing,  rioting  of  color  as  in  this  death  of  the 
autumn  leaves  on  these  Bethlehem   hills. 

Every  day  we  said,  "  This  will  be  the  last ;  "  and  it 
was  the  last  bearing  away  with  it  its  own  tint  of  glory 
never  to  return.  But  the  next  day  was  as  beaut'ful, 
sometimes  we  thought  more  beautiful,  except  that 
the  brilliance  of  the  long  royal  line  before  it  had 
dulled  our  sense.  Bright  days  dazzled  us  and  made  us 
leap  in  their  sun.  Gray  days  surprised  us,  revealing 
new  tints  and  more  gorgeous  heats  in  the  colors ;  we 
had  unthinkingly  believed  that  sunshine  helped  in- 
stead of  hindering.  In  this  was  a  lesson.  Also  in  the 
sudden  discovering,  hour  by  hour,  tiny  hidden  leaves 
of  unnoted  things,  under  foot  in  fields,  tucked  away 
in  hedges,  lying  low  even  in  edge  of  dusty  roads,  but 
bright  and  burnished  and  splendid  as  any  one  of 
those  loftiest  in  air.  Strawberry  leaves  dappled  with 
claret  spots,  or  winy  red  with  rims  of  yellow  ;  raspberry 
and  blackberry  shoots  as  brilliant  as  maples  ;  the  odd 
little  shovel-shaped  sorrel  leaves  a  deep,  clear  cherry 
just  pricked  with  orange;  patient  old  ''hardback"  stick- 
ing to  its  heavy  plumes  of  seed  through  thick  and  thin 
of  wind,  its  pretty  oval  leaves  all  tinted  with  delicate 
browns  and  yellows  and  pinks  blended  ;  "fireweed"  by 
thickets  in  desolaie  places,  six  feet  tall,  and  no  two  of 
its  sharp,  slender,  spike-shaped  leaves  of  a  tint,  some 
mottled,  some  yellow,  some  scarlet,  some  green  ;  —  all 
ihese  we  found  and  more,  whose  colors  I  cannot  define, 
and  whose  names,  more  shame  to  me,  I  do  not  know. 
And  so  the  days  of  the  miracle  play  went  on,  to  seven, 
to  ten,  to  fourteen.  There  were  few  to  see  it ;  but  even 
the  busy  and  usually  unobservant  farming  people  took 
13 


194  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

note  of  it.  "  Never'n  all  my  days  did  I  see  such  a 
sis^ht  's  'tis  here  naow,"  said  one  man,  driving  his  oxen 
off  to  the  right  of  the  road  to  make  room  for  me  with 
'the  best  part  of  a  maple-tree  on  my  shoulder.  And, 
"  Hev  yew  ben  daown  on  the  Wing  Road?"  said 
another. 

"  No,"  said  I  ;  "  are  the  leaves  very  fine  there  ?  " 

"  Wall,  I  jest  wish  you'd  go  'n'  see !  I  was  a 
thinkin'  abaout  yew  only  last  night,  'n'  I  sez  to  my 
wife,  's  we  wus  drivin'  along  ther,  sez  I,  '  Naow  them 
folks  that's  allers  a  gittin'  these  'ere  leaves  'd  better 
come  daown  this  road.'  " 

And  another,  a  good  old  deacon,  in  pathetic  mixture 
of  piety  and  poetry:  "Wall,  I've  lived  here  on  this 
Bethl'em  Street  all  my  born  days,  'n'  I  never  see  no 
sich  a  color  to  these  'ere  woods  afore.  I  guess  the 
Lord  knows  abaout  's  well  haow  to  fix  this  world  o' 
hisin  's  any  on  'em  do  thet's  allers  a  tryin'  to  make 
aout  haow  he  might  ha'  done  it." 

There  is  no  doubt  that  many  years  will  come  and  go 
before  Bethlehem  hills  will  see  such  sights  again.  All 
her  people  agree  in  saying  that  they  never  saw  such  be- 
fore ;  and  I  myself,  during  fifteen  autumns  of  such 
mountain  hving  and  rambhng  as  only  a  passion  for 
them  can  inspire  have  never  seen  any  thing  like  it.  As 
I  write,  the  air  is  full  of  whirhng  leaves,  brown  and 
yellow  and  red.  The  show  is  over.  The  winds  like 
noisy  carpenters,  are  taking  down  the  scenery.  They 
are  capricious  and  lawless  workmen,  doing  nothing  for 
a  day  or  two,  and  then  scurrying  about  madly  by  night 
to  make  up  for  lost  time.  Soon  the  naked  wood  of  the 
stripped  trees  will  be  all  that  we  shall  see  to  remind  us 
of  last  week's  pomp  and  spectacle.  But  the  thing  next 
in  beauty  to  a  tree  in  full  leaf  is  a  tree  bare  ;  its  every 
exquisiteness  of  shape  revealed,  and  its  hold  on  the 
sky  seeming  so  unspeakably  assured  ;  and,  more  than 
the  beauty  of  shape  and  the  outlining  on  sky,  the  solemn 
grace  of  prophecy  and  promise  which  every  slender 
twig  bears   and   reveals  in  its  tiny  gray  buds. 


THE  MIRACLE  PLAY  OF  1870.  195 

Last  night,  as  if  in  final  symphony  to  the  play  and 
grand  prelude  of  welcome  to  the  conquering  winter 
which  draws  near,  the  color  spirits  took  possession  of 
the  sky,  and  for  three  hours  shook  its  very  folds  with  the 
noiseless  cadence  of  their  motions.  There  they  all  were, 
the  green,  the  pink,  the  fiery  red,  which  we  had  been 
daring  to  touch  and  pick  in  leaves  off  stems,  now  float- 
ing and  dancing  in  disembodied  ecstasy  over  our  heads, 
wrapped  and  twined  in  very  light  of  very  light,  as  in 
celestial  garments.  Fixed  stars  seemed  reehng  in  their 
embraces  :  the  whole  firmament  seemed  to  furl  and 
sway  and  undulate,  as  if  it  might  presently  be  borne  off 
like  a  captured  banner  in  their  passing.  From  the 
zenith  to  the  eastern  and  western  and  northern  hori- 
zons, not  one  spot  was  dark.  If  there  had  been  snow 
on  the  ground,  it  would  have  been  ht  to  redness  as  by 
fire.  The  village  looked  on  in  solemn  silence ;  bare- 
headed men  and  women  stood  almost  in  awe  at  every 
threshold  and  gate.  This  also  was  such  sight  as  had 
never  before  been  seen  from  their  doors.  The  oldest 
man  here  does  not  remember  such  an  aurora.  It  is 
hard  to  believe  that  Lapland  itself  ever  saw  one  more 
weird,   more   beautiful. 

Next  morning  white  frost  and  a  clear,  sparkling  air, 
the  first  of  the  autumn ;  the  very  street  seemed  alive 
with  quickening  sense  of  its  stimulus.  There  was 
separate  delight  in  each  footfall ;  it  felt  like  a  wing 
stroke. 

"  Guess  it's  cleared  off  naow,  the  right  way,"  called 
out  one  old  man  to  another,  as  they  passed  on  the  road 

"  Wall,  yes.  I  call  this  abaout  's  pooty  a  day  's  ye 
ever  see  fur  enny  kind  o'  bizness,"  replied  his  friend. 

I  did  not  smile  at  the  phrase  of  his  speech.  Our 
hearts  were  in  unison  ;  and  he  was  better  oft"  than  I,  for 
his  homely  simplicitj  had  found  words  where  I  had 
been  dumb ! 


196  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME, 


A  GLIMPSE   OF    COUNTRY  WINTER    IN 
NEW   HAMPSHIRE. 

IT  is  worth  staying:  or  coming  to  see.  There  is  noth- 
ing like  it  in  cities  ;  it  should  not  have  name  in 
common  with  that  black,  blustering,  dripping-from- 
eaves,  knee-deep-in-slosh  misery,  which  is  all  that  New 
York  or  Boston  associates  with  the  word  "  winter." 

It  began  a  month  ago,  as  gently  and  cautiously  as  if 
Nature  were  trying  experiment,  and  did  not  know  how 
the  earth  could  bear  it :  first,  snow  on  the  distant 
mountains,  to  show  us  of  what  color  it  would  be ;  glis- 
tening white  like  crystal,  at  noon  ;  sohd  white  like  white 
rock,  if  the  day  grew  cloudy  ;  and  deep  pink  at  sunset, 
like  pink  topaz,  or  conch-shell  pearls,  or  cinnamon 
roses  ;  our  eyes  could  not  grow  wonted  to  the  splendor. 
Then  came  fine  soft  showers,  a  few  moments  long,  sift- 
ing lustreless  silver  on  every  grass-blade  and  tree-twig; 
in  an  hour  or  two  no  trace  was  left,  on  the  fields  or  by 
the  roadside  ;  but  going  into  the  woods,  one  found 
fringes  and  patches  of  it  on  fallen  logs,  in  hollows,  and 
laps  of  mosses.  It  is  sad  to  think  how  few  people  have 
heart  (or  chance)  to  go  into  the  woods  after  early  snows 
begin.  The  hush  of  them  is  sweeter  than  their  sound 
in  summer;  there  are  just  as  many  colors,  and  all  new  ; 
and  as  for  shape,  the  first  light  outhning  of  snow  is 
an  almost  miraculous  revelation  of  infinitesimal  points, 
curves,  peaks,  jags,  wreathings,  and  intertwinings  of  all 
things  that  grow.  There  is  not  a  dark  corner  from 
beginning  to  end  of  the  wood  ;  there  is  not  a  single  un- 
illumined  moss  stem ;  no,  not  one,  in  great  spaces  where 
moss   and    Linncea,  and   partridge-berry   vines    are   so 


A    GLIMPSE   OF  COUNTRY   WINTER.     197 

inextricably  tangled,  that  lifting  up  any  all  the  rest 
come  with  it,  in  mats  two  feet  wide  ;  no  man  could 
count  the  fallen  beech  and  maple  leaves  in  even  so  little 
room  of  ground  as  he  might  in  five  minutes  tread  full  of 
steps  ;  but  every  one  of  the  leaves  holds  its  own  dia- 
mond drop  of  water,  or  carven  crystal  of  snow  :  they 
are  curled  into  milHons  of  shapes  ;  an  artist  might  come 
and  draw  from  them  alone,  until  next  year  interrupted 
him.  "  O,  what  is  that  ?  "  said  my  friend  yesterday,  as 
I  held  up  to  her  a  scrolled  cornucopia  of  amber  brown, 
with  a  twisted  stem  two  inches  long.  It  looked  like  a 
fantastic  goblet,  cut  out  of  something  finer  than  wood, 
more  shining  than  glass,  and  dyed  as  silk  can  be  dyed. 
Over  and  round  the  rim,  there  stayed,  sohd  and  still, 
what  might  have  been  frozen  foam  of  the  last  toast 
drank.  It  was  only  a  huge  beech  leaf ;  it  had  rolled 
itself  up  as  it  fell,  and  poised  in  a  cleft  of  its  own  tree's 
root,  so  as  to  catch  in  open  mouth  all  the  snow  it  could 
hold. 

The  hardier  ferns  are  as  green  as  in  summer  ;  all  the 
mosses  are  greener  ;  and  the  lichens  are  but  just  begin- 
ning to  show  what  scarlets  and  yellows  they  mix  ;  and 
low-lying  leaves,  cornels,  tiarellas,  and  a  myriad  more, 
are  tinted  wondrously  with  claret  and  purple  and  pink  ; 
gay,  almost,  as  were  the  maple  and  ash  leaves  whicu 
made  the  upper  air  so  brilliant  a  month  ago.  Only  the 
firs  and  spruces  seem  unchanged  ;  perhaps  their  dark 
glossiness  is  a  little  deepened ;  but  they  do  not  take 
much  note  of  these  sprinkling  snows  ;  they  bide  their 
time  of  beauty,  which  will  be  the  first  hour  of  storm  ; 
then,  moment  by  moment,  they  will  be  transformed  into 
a  dazzling  Gothic  architecture,  the  like  of  which  is  not 
to  be  found  on  the  earth,  unless  perchance  there  may 
be  arctic  cathedrals  built  of  ice  in  open  polar  fields, 
where  no  men  go  to  worship. 

The  Hght  snows  gently  went  and  came,  until  we  grew 
aware  of  their  promise  and  impatient  of  their  delay. 
Had  it  been  her  first  snowing.  Nature  could  not  better 
have  won  us  to  be  ready  for  her  spectacle.     She  was 


198  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

honest  too  ;  for  there  were  days  of  sleet;  the  windows 
froze  down,  and  the  roads  were  iCy  and  horrible. 

In  these  days  a  bustle  of  preparation  was  to  be  heard 
and  seen  in  the  yillage.  Men  who  had  for  weeks  spent 
most  of  their  time  in  a  miserable  sort  of  waking  trance, 
on  tilted  chairs  around  the  stove  of  the  village  "  store," 
were  to  be  seen  hard  at  work  "  banking  up "  their 
houses.  The  heaping  and  boarding  of  these  flowerless 
flower-beds  of  earth  around  the  lower  stories  of  country 
houses  is  sensible,  perhaps,  but  not  artistic.  The  Ger- 
man peasantry  keep  out  cold  by  a  more  picturesque 
method,  pihng  their  fire-wood  compactly  round  and 
round  their  houses,  leaving  small  loopholes  at  windows, 
till,  finally,  the  whole  structure  is  a  combination  of 
castle  and  log-cabin,  by  no  means  ugly  to  see. 

In  the  days  too,  potatoes,  if  accurately  quoted,  in 
market  phrase,  might  have  been  said  to  be  "  lively  ;  " 
for  they  were  being  shovelled  and  tumbled  by  bushels 
into  cellar  windows  all  along  the  street. 

The  blacksmith's  anvil  had  no  rest  from  morning  till 
late  at  night.  His  great  red  fire  glared  out  like  an 
angry  watchful  eye  long  after  dark  ;  much  I  fear  the 
poor  country  horses  fared  ill  in  his  numb  and  weary 
hands. 

Builders'  hammers,  too,  rang  out  more  vigorously 
than  ever.  There  are  eleven  new  houses  going  up  in 
this  httle  town.  Next  summer's  hospitality  will  have 
open  doors  enough,  and  nobody  will  turn  away,  as 
scores  have  done  this  year,  for  want  of  room. 

In  these  days  also  came  Elder  MacNaughton  the 
Baptist,  crying  "  Prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord  ;  " 
and  the  Baptists  prepared  it  after  a  bitter  fashion; 
laying  violent  hands  on  a  little  meadow  brook,  and 
damming  it  up,  till  it  made  of  itself  a  muddy  pool,  some 
six  feet  square.  Down  to  this  pool,  on  a  Sunday  noon, 
came  six  young  women,  one  with  her  lover,  to  be  bap- 
tized in  the  icy  water;  also  there  was  "that  sacred 
being,"  as  good  George  MacDonald  says,  "a  maid- 
child."  The  village  people  came  in  silent,  solemn 
groups   to  look  on  ;    some   standing    closely   in   rows 


A    GLIMPSE   OF   COUNTRY   WINTER.     199 

along  the  edge  of  the  stream,  others  sitting  and  stand- 
ing a  few  rods  off  on  top  of  the  high  sloping  bank.  We 
felt  almost  as  if  we  had  come  upon  some  gathering  of 
old  Covenanters,  under  the  gray  sky  of  a  Scottish  win- 
ter;  the  bare  frozen  fields,  the  black  fir  woods,  the 
circling  mountains,  the  rough  rocks,  the  uncovered 
heads  and  awed  faces,  the  low  minor  cadences  of  the 
psalm,  and  more  than  all  the  unutterable  silences  in 
intervals  of  the  service,  —  all  made  up  a  scene  which 
we  shall  not  forget,  and  which  will  make  that  little 
meadow  brook  sing  less  merrily  in  our  ears  for  many  a 
summer  to  come. 

But  the  days  went  on :  and  we  being  strangers  in  the 
land,  having  neither  houses  to  build  or  bank,  nor  horses 
to  be  rough-shod,  nor  faith  in  Elder  MacNaughton's 
preaching,  grew  almost  weary  of  waiting  for  sight  of 
grand,  full  winter. 

Already  the  far-away  Green  Mountains  were  white, 
and  their  distant  slopes  seemed  to  lift  and  lie  level  along 
the  horizon,  as  one  could  fancy  icefields  lying  white  and 
high  among  blue  icebergs.  Mounts  Washington,  Jef- 
ferson, and  Adams  were  a  snowy  wall  to  the  east  ;  and 
glistening  in  the  sun  to  the  south  lay  the  Franconias, 
gentle  and  gracious  still  under  all  their  snows,  as  in 
summer's  green  ;  every  thing  far  and  near,  great  and 
small,  was  silvered,  or  tufted,  or  mounded  with  snow. 
But  not  one  smallest  outhne  was  lost  or  altered  ;  we 
could  still  see  on  Strawberry  Hill  the  maple  branch  on 
which  the  yellow-hammers  had  their  nest ;  each  seed- 
plume  of  golden-rods  which  we  had  spared  in  the  lanes 
stood  upright,  and  only  more  beautiful  for  being  frosted 
over  ;  stone  walls  and  fences  stretched  out  plainer  than 
ever,  being  braided  of  black  and  white  ;  and  wheels 
still  rattled  in  frozen  ruts  half  filled  and  barely  hid  by 
snow.     This  was  not  winter.     We  waited  for  more. 

At  last  it  came,  as  1  almost  think  it  loves  best  to 
come,  in  the  night ;  soft,  complete,  shining ;  small  trace 
now  of  any  man's  landmark,  by  wall  or  fence  ;  no  color 
Dut  white  and  no  shape  but  snow,  to  any  shrub  or  tree 
or  wood  ;  looking  out,  we  perceived  that  no  man  could 


200  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

any  more  tell  us  of  Labrador,  or  Greenland :  they  can- 
not be  more  than  the  whole  of  winter  ;  the  whole  Jr 
winter  lay  between  the  horizon  and  our  doorstep.  For 
a  little  there  was  not  even  road  ;  if  we  had  had  our  way, 
no  human  being  should  have  taken  step  to  make  foot- 
print between  that  sunrise  and  sunset ;  nor  should  there 
have  been  sound,  save  the  slide  of  drifts  from  pine 
boughs  in  the  forest,  and  the  whir  of  httle  snow-birds' 
wings.  But  we  discovered  that  it  is  not  possible  to 
look  out  on  such  a  night's  snow  so  early  that  it  shall 
not  be  found  printed  here  and  there  with  the  tiny  star- 
shaped  impress  of  feet  so  light  that  they  barely  jarred 
the  crystals ;  also  that  the  loud  shouts  of  merry  boys 
are  no  more  discordant  in  such  morning's  air  than  the 
gentle  noises  snow-birds  make  when  they  fly. 

In  a  few  hours  the  village  surveying  and  road-making 
were  over,  and  work  began  and  went  on.  Since  then 
there  has  been  no  surprise,  no  change  ;  except  that 
every  day  the  mountains  have  some  tint  of  purple,  or 
blue,  or  gray,  or  red,  which  they  have  not  had  before, 
and  the  great  dome  of  sky  looks  higher  and  higher. 
After  living  for  months  on  such  a  plateau  as  this,  from 
which  half  the  sky  there  is  can  be  seen  at  once,  it  will 
seem  Hke  groping  bhndfolded  to  walk  about  city  streets 
and  see  sky  only  by  strips,  through  chinks  ;  or  more, 
perhaps,  as  if  the  great  celestial  umbrella  had  been 
suddenly  shut  down  on  our  heads,  and  we  were  darkly 
fumbling  among  the  wires  and  bones. 

Each  day  as  we  walk  up  and  down  the  soft  roads, 
scattering  the  feathery  flakes  with  our  feet,  craunching 
a  few  now  and  then,  or  rolling  them  up  into  balls  and 
tossing  them  aimlessly,  the  good  peoole  of  the  village 
stare  at  us  with  mingled  amazement  and  pity.  We 
know  they  look  upon  us  compassionately,  thinking  in 
their  secret  hearts  that  we  must  be  banished  by  some 
sin  or  misfortune  into  this  wintry  exile.  But  we  smile 
as  we  pass  them,  and  say  under  our  breath,  "  Yes,  pity 
us  ;  we  are  glad  of  your  pity  ;  we  need  it ;  for  we  must 
go  away  next  week !  " 


A    VERMONT   GRAVEYARD.  20I 


A    MORNING     IN    A   VERMONT    GRAVE- 
YARD. 

IT  is  the  warmest  spot  I  have  found  to-day ;  a  high 
wall  of  soft  pines  and  willow  birches  breaks  the 
force  of  the  wind  on  two  sides,  and  the  noon  sunhght 
lies  with  the  glow  of  a  fire  on  the  brown  crisp  grass. 
The  blackberry  vines,  which  this  year  have  brighter 
colors  than  the  maple-trees,  flame  out  all  over  the  yard 
in  fantasdc  tangles  and  wreaths  of  red,  and  the  downy 
films  of  the  St.  John's  wort  and  thistle  seeds  are  flying 
about  in  the  air.  Half  an  hour  ago  an  express  train 
went  by,  on  the  river  bank,  many  feet  below,  and  the 
noise  seemed  almost  unpardonable  so  near  the  graves. 
Since  then  not  a  sound  has  broken  the  stillness,  and 
the  fleecy  clouds  have  seemed  to  come  down  closer  and 
closer  until  they  look  like  thin  veils  around  bending 
faces. 

Do  they  take  note,  now  and  then,  of  their  graves,  I 
wonder,  the  old  worthies  and  unworthies  who  have 
passed  on  1  The  Mrs.  Jemima  Tute  by  whose  grave  I 
am  sitting  might  well  remember  to  come  back  to  this 
hillside  sometimes,  for  she  went  through  terrible  days 
here.  Only  a  few  rods  off  stood  Bridgman's  fort,  from 
which  she  and  her  seven  children  were  carried  into 
captivity  by  the  St.  Francis  Indians  in  the  summer  of 
1755.  She  was  then  Mrs.  Howe.  On  the  27th  ot 
July,  —  how  well  she  must  still  recollect  the  day,  —  she 
and  two  other  women —  Mrs.  Eunice  Gafiield  and  Mrs. 
Submit  Grout  —  were  left  alone  with  their  children  in 
bis  fort,  while  their  husbands  went  to  hoe  corn  in  the 
«neadow.     No  doubt  the  day  seemed  long;   but  when 


202  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

twilight  set  in  and  their  husbands  did  not  come  home 
their  terror  grew  great.  They  crowded  around  the  door 
of  the  fort  anxiously  listening  to  the  faintest  sounds. 
At  length  came  the  trampling  of  horses'  feet,  and 
voices  ;  the  excited  women  never  stopping  to  make  sure 
that  they  were  the  voices  of  friends,  hastily  threw  open 
the  door,  when,  in  the  language  of  the  quaint  old  Bunker 
Gay,  who  wrote  out  the  story  in  1809,  "Lo,  to  their 
inexpressible  disappointment  and  surprise,  instead  of 
their  husbands,  in  rushed  a  number  of  hideous  Indians, 
to  whom  they  and  their  tender  offspring  became  an  easy 
prey." 

Their  husbands,  on  their  way  home,  had  been  sur- 
prised by  this  same  party  of  Indians.  Grout  escaped 
unhurt ;  Gaffield  was  drowned  in  attempting  to  swim 
the  river,  and  the  unlucky  Howe,  having  had  his  thigh 
broken  by  a  fall,  fell  from  his  horse,  was  scalp'ed  and 
left  for  dead.  He  lived,  however,  till  the  next  morning, 
and  was  found  by  a  party  of  men  from  Fort  Hinsdale. 
His  body  had  been  thrust  through  by  a  spear,  and  a 
hatchet  had  been  left  sticking  in  his  head,  but  he  knew 
his  friends,  spoke,  and  did  not  die  till  after  he  was 
carried   into   the   fort. 

Mrs.  Howe's  experiences  during  her  year  of  captivity 
are  told  with  simplicity  and  minuteness  in  a  narrative 
by  Bunker  Gay,  in  Bingham's  "  American  Preceptor  " 
for  the  year  1809.  She  is  also  mentioned  in  the  "Essay 
on  the  life  of  the  Honorable  Major  General  Putnam," 
written  in  1788  by  David  Humphreys,  one  of  Genera] 
Washington's  aids,  and  minister  at  Madrid. 

Major  Putnam  met  Mrs.  Howe  at  the  home  of  Gen- 
eral Schuyler,  who  had  ransomed  her  from  the  French 
officer  to  whom  she  had  been  sold  by  her  Indian  master. 
By  General  Schuyler's  aid,  she  recovered  five  of  her 
children  and  returned  to  the  colonies  under  Major  Put- 
nam's escort.  She  must  have  been  a  woman  of  uncom- 
mon beauty  and  charm ;  and  her  experiences  as  a 
captive  were  in  consequence  rendered  much  more  dis- 
tressing.    Major   Putnam   himself   seems  not   to  have 


A    VERMONT  GRAVEYARD.  2C3 

escaped  wholly  from  the  power  of  her  beauty.  Hum- 
phreys says,  "  She  was  still  young  and  handsome, 
though  she  had  daughters  of  marriageable  age.  Distress, 
which  had  taken  somewhat  from  the  original  redun- 
dancy of  her  bloom  and  added  a  softening  paleness 
to  her  cheeks,  rendered  her  appearance  the  more 
engaging.  Her  face,  which  seemed  formed  for  the 
assemblage  of  dimples  and  smiles,  was  clouded  by  care." 
The  grass  is  netting  its  meshes  and  roots  more  and 
more  closely  round  the  base  of  the  old  slate  stone  at 
her  grave,  and  I  had  to  separate  it  with  my  fingers  and 
tear  it  away  before  I  could  copy  the  last  lines  of  the 
epitaph  : 

"  Mrs.  Jemima  Tute, 

Successively  relict  of  Messrs.  Wm.    Phipps,  Caleb   Howe  and 

Amos  Tute. 

The  two  first  were  killed  by  the  Indians : 

Phipps,  July  5,  A.  D.  1743  I 

Howe,  June  27,  1755. 

When  Howe  was  killed  she  and  her  children, 

Then  seven  in  number, 

Were  carried  into  captivity. 

The  oldest  daughter  went  to  France, 

And  was  married  to  a  French  Gentleman ; 

The  youngest  was  torn  from  her  Breast, 

And  perished  with  hunger. 

By  the  aid  of  some  benevolent  Gentle'n, 

And  her  own  personal  heroism, 

She  recovered  the  rest. 

She  had  two  by  her  last  Husband, 

Outlived  both  him  and  them, 

And  died  March  7th,  1805,  aged  82  ; 

Having  passed  thro'  more  vicissitudes, 

And  endured  more  hardships. 

Than  any  of  her  cotemporaries. 

No  more  can  Savage  Foes  annoy, 

Nor  aught  her  wide-spread  Fame  destroy." 

Mr.  Amos  Tute's  grave  is  next  to  his  wife's.  Its 
marble  stone  although  fifteen  years  older  than  hers, 
looks  comparatively  modern,  and  the  inscription  is  clear. 
It  is  strange  that  with  the  white  marble  ready  to  their 


304  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

hands  on  so  many  hillsides,  the  old  Vermont  settlers 
should  have  put  so  many  of  their  records  into  keeping 
of  the  short-lived  slate  : 

"  Mr.  Amos  Tute, 

who  died  April  1 7th, 

1790,  in  the  Solii 

year  of  his 

Age. 

"  Were  I  so  tall  to  reach  the  Pole 

Or  grasp  the  ocean  with  my  span, 
I  must  be  measured  by  my  soul, 

The  mind's  the  standard  of  the  man." 

Near  these  two  graves  is  that  of  her  son  Jonathan, 
whose  epitaph  certainly  takes  place  high  on  the  list  of 
church-yard  oddities  : 

"  Here  lies,  cut  down  like  unripe  Fruit, 
A  son  of  Mr.  Amos  Tute 
And  Mrs.  Jemima  Tute,  his  wife. 
Called  Jonathan,  of  whose  Frail  life 
The  days  all  summe'd  (how  short  the  account), 
Scarcely  to  fourteen  years  Amount. 
Born  on  the  Twelfth  of  May  Was  He, 
In  Seventeen  Hundred  Sixty-Three. 
To  Death  he  fell  a  helpless  prey, 
April  the  Five  &  Twentieth  Day, 
In  Seventeen  Hundred  Seventy-Seven, 
Quitting  this  world,  we  trust  for  Heaven. 
But  tho'  his  Spirit's  fled  on  High, 
His  body  mouldering  here  must  lie. 
Behold  the  amazing  alteration 
Effected  by  inoculation. 
The  means  improved  his  life  to  save, 
Hurried  him  headlong  to  the  grave. 
Full  in  the  bloom  of  youth  he  fell. 
Alas  !  what  human  tongue  can  tell 
The  Mother's  Grief,  her  Anguish  show, 
Or  paint  the  Father's  heavier  woe, 
Who  now  no  nat'ral  offspring  has 
His  ample  Fortune  to  possess, 
To  fill  his  Place,  stand  in  his  Stead, 
Or  bear  his  name  when  he  is  dead. 
So  God  ordain'd.     His  ways  are  Just. 
The  empires  crumble  into  dust. 
Life  and  the  world  mere  bubbles  are. 
Set  loose  to  these  ;  for  Heaven  prepare." 


A    VERMONT  GRAVEYARD.  205 

A  few  rods  from  the  graveyard,  is  a  small  red  farm 
cottage  in  which  live  some  of  Mrs.  Howe's  descendants. 
I  stopped  there  one  day  to  talk  with  them,  and  to  see 
the  door  of  Bridgman's  fort  which  I  was  told  they  had. 

The  door  turned  out  to  be  not  a  door  at  all,  but  a  sin- 
gle board  which  might  or  might  not  have  been  part  of 
a  door,  and  at  any  rate  did  not  belong  to  Bridgman's 
fort,  but  to  another  which  stood  a  little  further  north, 
and  was  never  picketed,  but  in  which  Mrs.  Howe  and 
her  family  had  lived.  The  board  was  roughly  hewn, 
many  inches  thick,  and  had  a  bullet  hole  in  it.  A  girl, 
perhaps  thirteen  years  old,  was  playing  in  the  yard  with 
her  httle  brother.  Her  beauty  was  striking  :  a  finely  cut 
outline  and  the  rarest  coloring.  She  was  a  great-grand- 
daughter of  Mrs.  Jemima  Tute,  Somehow  she  seerned 
to  me  a  much  closer  and  more  direct  link  with  the  old 
story  than  the  board,  which  had  doubtless  been  often 
swung  to  and  fro  by  her  great-grandmother's  hands. 

Only  a  few  steps  from  the  immortalized  Jonathan  is 
the  grave  of  another  :  — 

'*  The  unfortunate  Miranda,  daughter 
Of  John  and  Ruth  Bridgman, 
Whose  remains  are  here  interred, 

Fell  a  prey  to  the  flames 
That  consumed  her  father's  house, 
On  ye  6th  of  June,  1771, 
Aged  28. 

The  room  below  flamed  like  a  stove ; 
Anxious  for  those  who  slept  above, 
She  entered  on  the  trembling  floor  ; 
She  fell,  she  sank,  and  rose  no  more." 

In  another  sunny  corner,  lie  side  by  side  the  three 
wives  of  Mr.  Abijah  Rogers.  The  first  died  in  1784. 
Her  tombstone  bears  the  following  epitaph  :  — 

♦*  Look  down  on  me  :  i  slumber  here  ; 

The  grave's  become  my  bed ; 
And  think  on  death  that's  always  near, 

For  life  may  quickly  fade." 


206  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

P'ive  years  later,  the  unlucky  Mr.  Rogers  buried  an- 
other wife  in  friendly  neighborhood  to  the  first,  and 
avoided  all  appearance  of  partiality  by  putting  on  her 
tombstone  precisely  the  same  stanza,  line  for  line,  letter 
for  letter,  except  that  the  personal  pronoun  in  the  first 
line  is  represented  by  a  capital,  but  this  was  probably 
due  to  the  progress  of  education  in  the  country,  and  not 
to  any  unhandsome  distinction  in  Mr.  Rogers's  mind. 
In  1798,  the  again  bereaved  widower  was  called  to  put 
up  a  third  stone  at  the  third  wife's  grave,  and  this  time 
the  village  muse  (or  his  own)  took  a  new  flight,  as 
below  :  — 

"  Reader,  behold,  and  shed  a  tear ; 
Think  on  the  dust  that  skimbers  here  ; 
And  when  you  read  the  fate  of  me. 
Think  on  the  glass  that  runs  for  thee." 

Last  of  all,  the  man  died  also,  and  appears  to  have 
been  buried  as  far  from  all  three  of  his  wives  as  possi- 
ble, and  to  have  eschewed  poetical  epitaphs. 

It  is  strange  to  see  how  some  one  mortuary  stanza 
would  have  a  run,  so  to  speak,  in  a  neighborhood,  and 
be  put  on  stone  after  stone,  for  male  and  female,  old  and 
young,  and  (we  must  suppose)  righteous  and  unright- 
eous "ahke.  Here  is  one  such  which  occurs  no  less  than 
six  times  in  a  few  rods'  space  :  — 

"  Sickness  sore  long  time  I  bore 
Physician's  skill  in  vane 
Till  God  did  send  death  as  a  friend 
To  ease  me  of  my  pane." 

One  of  the  most  moss-grown  stones  in  the  yard, 
though  not  one  of  the  oldest,  is  a  double  one,  two  arches 
joined  by  a  Siamese  twin  arrangement,  and  in  memory 
of  a  husband  and  wife.  The  husband  died  in  1789,  and 
under  his  name  stands  this  strikingly  matter-of-fact 
statement :  — 


A    VERMONT  GRAVEYARD.  207 

"  In  health  one  night  as  heretofore, 
He  went  to  bed  and  rose  no  more  ; 
Death  lurks  unseen,  and  who  can  say 
He's  sure  to  live  another  day." 

The  other  half  of  the  stone  waited  just  ten  years  for 
its  record  of  the  widow's  death.  A  business-like  view 
of  such  events  must  have  been  a  family  trait  throughout 
that  community,  for  they  found  nothing  more  tender  or 
solemn  to  .say  of  her,  than  — 

"  Death  is  a  debt  to  nature  due, 
Which  I  have  paid  and  so  must  you." 

By  a  round-about  road  through  pine  and  beech  woods, 
dark  with  the  undergrowth  of  shining  laurel,  we  wind 
down  from  the  hill  into  the  town  below.  We  shall 
pass  another  curious  burial-ground  on  our  left.  It  is 
not  enclosed ;  has  no  tombstones  ;  and,  so  far  as  any- 
body knows,  there  have  been  no  interments  in  it  for 
thousands  of  years.  The  only  traces  of  builders  which 
are  to  be  seen  in  it,  are  the  marks  of  the  teeth  of 
beavers,  who  had  dams  in  it  when  it  was  a  pond.  Now 
it  is  only  a  muck  bed.  The  most  distinguished,  or,  at 
any  rate,  the  biggest  person  ever  buried  there,  was  an 
elephant.  Two  years  ago,  some  Irish  laborers  dug  part 
of  him  up.  Even  in  a  muck  bed,  among  the  Green 
Mountains,  he  was  not  any  safer  than  he  would  have 
been  in  Trinity  Church  yard  in  New  York  ;  all  they 
found  of  him  —  only  forty  inches  of  one  tusk,  to  be 
sure  —  is  on  exhibition  at  the  State  Capitol,  and  has 
been  mended  with  glue  by  the  State  Geologist. 


COLORADO. 


A   SYMPHONY  IN  YELLOW  AND  RED.     2il 


A   SYMPHONY    IN   YELLOW   AND    RED. 

WE  owe  a  great  debt  to  Mr.  Whistler  for  having 
reclaimed  the  good  word  "  symphony  "  from  the 
arbitrary  monopoly  of  music  writers.  At  first  we  won- 
dered at  the  daring  reprisal ;  but  presently  the  right  of 
it  became  so  plain  that  we  only  wondered  no  man  had 
done  it  before. 

Henceforth  they  who  make  harmonies  for  the  eye  will 
hold  the  word  fraternally  in  common  with  those  who 
make  harmonies  for  the  ear,  and  no  just  person  can  call 
it  an  affectation.  And  he  also  who  seeks  to  render  in 
words,  as  others  in  music  or  color,  some  one  of  nature's 
gracious  harmonies  which  has  greatly  delighted  him, 
will  do  it  all  the  better  by  the  help  of  this  good  word  in 
the  beginning.  Except  for  it,  I  think  I  should  have 
never  believed  it  possible  to  tell  what  I  am  going  to  try 
to  tell  now.  One  day  an  artist  in  Colorado  spoke  to  me 
of  Mr.  Whistler's  Symphony  in  White. 

"  Ah,"  said  I,  "  Colorado  is  a  symphony  in  yellow  and 
red."  And  as  soon  as  I  had  said  the  words,  the  colors 
and  the  shapes  in  which  I  knew  them  seemed  instantly 
to  be  arranged  in  my  thought :  places  miles  apart  began 
to  knit  themselves  together  into  a  concerted  and  related 
succession  ;  spots  and  tints  I  had  only  vaguely  recog- 
nized became  distinct  and  significant,  each  in  its  order 
and  force  ;  and  more  and  more  as  I  looked  from  the 
plains  to  the  mountains  and  from  the  mountains  to  the 
plains,  and  stood  in  the  great  spaces  crowded  with  gay 
and  fantastic  rocks,  all  the  time  bearing  in  mind  this 
phrase,  it  grew  to  seem  true  and  complete  and  inevitable. 

I  ought  to  say  at  the  outset  that  in  speaking  of  the 


2 1 2  BITS  OF  TEA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

coloring  of  Colorado,  I  speak  only  of  the  part  of  Colo- 
rado which  I  know  thoroughly,  the  vicinity  of  the  town 
of  Colorado  Springs,  which  lies  seventy  miles  south  ot 
Denver,  at  the  foot  of  Pike's  Peak.  There  is  a  similar 
brilliance  and  variety  of  coloring  in  other  parts  of  the 
Territory,  but  I  know  them  less. 

"The  eye  paints  best  in  the  presence,  the  heart  in 
the  absence,  of  the  loved  object,"  said  Bettina.  To-day, 
as  I  sit  on  a  New  England  hillside  and  look  westward, 
the  pale  blue  bar  of  the  horizon  line  seems  a  vista, 
rather  than  a  barrier,  and  I  see  the  Colorado  plains 
lying  beyond  ;  see  them  as  distinctly  as  if  I  were  stand- 
ing on  their  very  edge,  and  counting  the  belts  and  bands 
of  color  which  I  know  the  fiery  Colorado  sun  is  at  this 
very  moment  printing  on  their  surface. 

When  I  first  saw  them  they  were  gray ;  blank,  bald, 
pitiless  gray,  under  a  gray  November  sky.  "  A  sea  of 
gray  ice  !  "  I  said  to  myself.  "  It  is  terrible."  To  the 
east  and  the  south  and  the  north  they  stretched,  appar- 
ently endless  ;  broken  only  by  a  few  buttes  rising  as 
gray  icebergs  might,  frozen  fast  in  the  gray  sea.  To 
the  west,  a  mountain  wall ;  mountains  which  looked 
like  black  adamant  crystaUized  into  immovable  and  giant 
shapes.  Had  I  passed  by  then,  and  never  seen  those 
plains  and  mountains  again,  the  picture  would  have  lived 
in  my  memory  always  as  the  picture  of  a  place  fit  for  the 
old  Scandinavian  hell.  I  recall  the  scene  now,  as  one 
recalls  a  vision  from  a  nightmare  dream.  No  darkest 
day  ever  produced  it  again.  After  I  had  once  seen  the 
plains  aglow,  nothing  could  make  them  any  thing  but 
beautiful.  We  know  no  face  till  it  smiles.  If  the  smile 
is  a  true  smile,  the  face  is  transfigured  to  us  for  ever. 

These  plains  are  thick-covered  with  grasses ;  the 
buffalo  grass,  which  grows  in  low  tufts  or  mats,  with  a 
single  tiny,  dark,  spear-shaft  head  on  each  stalk  ;  and 
two  or  three  other  sorts  which  have  fine  feathery  blos- 
soms. These  dry  in  wonderful  colors,  yellows  and  reds  ; 
the  yellows  shade  up  to  scarlets,  and  the  reds  down  to 
the  darkest  claret.     There  are   also   numerous  weeds, 


A   SYMPHONY  IN  YELLOW  AND  RED.     213 

whose  tiny  flowers  dry  on  their  stalks  in  the  marvellous 
preserving  air  of  the  plains.  These  too  dry  into  yellow 
and  berry-red.  I  especially  remember  one  of  these 
which  eluded  me  for  a  long  time.  I  had  noticed,  in  my 
drives,  spots  of  vivid  red  here  and  there  on  the  ground 
at  short  distances  from  the  road,  but  saw  nothing  to 
explain  them.  When  I  walked  over  the  same  ground  I 
found  only  the  usual  grasses  and  indifferent-colored 
weeds.  At  last,  one  day,  I  saw  a  big  patch  of  this 
color,  half  a  rod  long  ;  when  I  reached  the  spot,  I  found 
myself  walking  over  myriads  of  infinitesimal  stems,  not 
more  than  an  inch  or  two  from  the  ground,  each  holding 
dt  top  a  tiny  dried  calyx,  bright  red,  the  size  of  a  pin's 
head.  Singly  or  in  small  bunches  they  would  hardly 
be  seen,  and  yet  I  afterwards  recognized  that  they  made 
superb  masses  of  color  in  many  places.  I  carried  a 
bunch  of  them  home,  but  their  color  had  gone  out.  In 
vain  I  set  them  in  strong  hght  on  a  window-sill ;  they 
would  not  be  bright  red  any  longer.  They  needed  the 
free  air  of  the  plains,  and  the  sun  striking  through. 

There  are  no  trees  or  bushes  on  these  plains,  except 
along  the  small  and  infrequent  creek  courses.  Looking 
down  from  heights  you  trace  the  creeks  from  horizon  to 
horizon,  not  by  glistening  lines  of  water,  but  merely  by 
zigzag  Hnes  of  deeper  color ;  in  the  summer  by  lines  of 
vivid  green,  in  the  winter  by  lines  of  dark  red,  pale 
yellow,  and  gray.  The  bare  cotton-wood  trees  are  gray  ; 
the  willows,  of  which  there  are  several  varieties  grow- 
ing luxuriantly,  are  yellow  and  red  :  yellow  as  gold,  and 
with  the  sheen  of  satin  on  their  stems  ;  red  as  wine, 
and  taking  the  sun  as  flashingly.  A  little  marsh  filled 
with  them,  and  lying  in  a  hollow  of  the  plain,  makes,  on 
a  bright  day,  such  a  blaze  of  shaded  and  graduated 
color  as  I  do  not  know  elsewhere.  When  above  these 
claret  and  yellow  willow  stems  rises  a  copse  of  leafless 
cotton-woods,  of  soft,  filmy  gray,  the  whitest  gray  ever 
seen,  the  combination  of  color  is  at  once  so  dainty  and 
so  vivid  that  one  is  amazed  that  so  subtle  an  effect  can 
last  day  after  day.     Yet  there  they  stand,  all  through 


214  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

January,  all  through  February,  all  through  March,  and 
through  April,  well  into  May,  a  perpetual  delight. 
These  are  the  months  in  which  the  coloring  of  the 
plains  is  at  its  best.  When  spring  fades  the  willows, 
covers  the  cotton-woods  with  light  green  leaves,  and 
turns  the  plains  to  a  pale  olive-green,  the  landscape 
becomes  tame  in  comparison  with  its  winter  hue.  I 
have  spent  winter  afternoons  on  the  bluffs  to  the  east  of 
the  town,  looking  down  on  the  plains  when  they  were 
yellow  as  wheat  fields  in  August,  of  as  even  surface  as 
a  close  shorn  lawn,  and  with  great  belts  and  irregular 
spaces  of  paler  or  deeper  yellow,  berry-red,  claret,  and 
dark  brown.  Looking  at  these  miles  of  shaded  and 
blended  colors  one  finds  the  worn-out  simile  of  a  carpet 
almost  fresh  in  one's  thought,  because  so  inevitable. 
Then,  when  swiftly  moving  clouds  make  a  play  of  shad- 
ows upon  the  carpet,  it  looks  more  like  a  sea.  There  is 
a  peculiar  tint  of  blue  in  all  shadows  in  Colorado. 
When  they  are  cast  upon  snow  the  effect  is  indescribably 
beautiful.  A  fantastic  chariot  in  mazarine  blue  glides 
noiselessly  by  your  side  as  you  drive  ;  a  double  in 
ghostly  clothes  of  blue  steel  slips  on  ahead  of  you  as 
you  walk.  These  shifting  blue  shadows  on  the  yellow 
plains  give  them  a  wonderful  semblance  to  the  sea  under 
alternating  sunlight  and  shade. 

The  northern  horizon  of  this  shining  carpet,  this  sun- 
lit sea,  is  a  deep  blue  wall.  This  is  the  Divide,  the 
table-land  separating  the  Denver  plains  from  ours.  It 
is  eight  thousand  feet  high  at  its  highest,  and  thickly 
grown  with  pines  ;  but  it  looks  simply  like  a  soHd  bar  of 
blue. 

The  western  horizon  is  the  top  of  a  mountain  range, 
Pike's  Peak,  nearly  fifteen  thousand  feet  high,  its  central 
and  culminating  point, whose  tints  shall  be  fiery  red,  gold- 
en yellow,  or  deep  purple  blue,  according  as  you  see  them  ', 
fiery  red  at  dawn,  yellow  in  the  first  flood  of  sunrise, 
and  purple  just  after  the  sun  has  set.  The  southern  and 
eastern  horizons  are  sky  or  plain,  you  know  not  which. 
Whether  the  sky  bends  and  droops,  or  the  plain  hollows 


A  SYMPHONY  I  A'  YELLOW  AND  RED.     215 

and  curves  up  to  the  tender,  vanishing  line  in  which 
both  cease  to  be,  you  never  know  ;  and  your  not  know- 
ing is  the  charm,  the  spell,  under  which  you  gaze  and 
gaze  into  the  immeasurable  distance,  until  myriads  of 
worlds  seem  to  be  coming  and  going  just  along  the  outer 
edge  of  this  one.  On  a  very  clear  day,  two  blue  pyra- 
mids rise  in  the  south,  and  a  long,  low,  undulating  line 
Jke  blue  mist  is  seen  at  their  right.  These  are  the 
Spanish  Peaks,  a  hundred  miles  away,  and  the  range  is 
the  Sangre  di  Cristo.  What  a  strange  audacity  of  rev- 
erence there  seems  in  the  way  the  Spaniard  has  set  the 
name  of  his  Christ  everywhere  !  In  the  east,  there  are 
a  few  near  buttes  or  bluffs.  They  also  are  yellow, 
darkened  by  low  growths  of  pines  and  firs.  They  rise 
up  like  fortresses.  Among  them  lie  and  wind  labyrinth- 
ine valleys,  —  sheltered  spots  in  which  sheep-raisers 
find  warm  nooks  for  themselves  and  for  their  sheep  at 
night.  These  buttes  or  bluffs  are  mainly  of  yellow  sand- 
stone ;  the  growth  of  firs  and  low  oaks  is  so  thin  that  it 
does  not  hide  the  yellow  tint,  only  makes  a  dark  fret- 
work over  it.  Coming  closer  to  them,  you  see  that  their 
sides  are  strangely  rounded,  and,  as  it  were,  hewn  into 
projections  like  towers,  bastions,  parapets,  arches,  — 
iedges  and  chasms  and  toppled  bowlders  everywhere. 
No  wonder  the  yellow  plain  looks  like  a  sunht  sea,  for 
not  so  very  long  ago,  as  the  earth  reckons  her  ages,  it 
was  a  great  lake,  and  these  were  the  cliffs  on  its  shores. 
Climbing  up  these  bluffs,  and  wandering  in  their  shady 
recesses,  one  thinks  of  Edom  and  Petraea.  Strange 
■shapes  of  yellow  sandstone  are  standing  or  lying  about 
.n  a  confusion  which  is  at  once  suggestive  and  bewilder 
ing.  They  are  mostly  rounded  and  grooved  columns, 
of  tapering  and  irregular  forms,  sometimes  broken  short 
off,  but  more  often  widening  at  the  top  into  a  broad  cap, 
like  an  anvil.  Many  of  them  are  of  such  grotesque 
shapes  that  at  every  turn  they  take  new  and  fantastic 
semblances,  seem  to  have  leering  or  malicious  faces, 
sometimes  almost  to  be  peering  out  and  disappearing 
mockingly  behind  the  trees.     Their  color  is  not  a  uni- 


2i6  BITS  OF   TRAVEL    AT  HOME. 

form  yellow,  but  is  of  a  variety  of  shades  and  tones, 
often  deepening  into  orange  or  scarlet,  often  shading  up 
to  nearly  white  at  top,  and  then  finished  off  with  the 
anvil-like  cap  of  dark  brown,  green,  or  red.  The  ground 
is  strewn  with  odd,  round  pebbles,  large  and  small,  ot 
the  same  friable  yellow  stone.  Many  of  them  are 
broken  open  into  equal  halves,  a  round  hollow  in  the 
centre  of  each,  as  if  they  were  petrified  husks  of  nuts. 
Many  of  them  bear  fantastic  resemblances  to  birds  or 
beasts.  There  was  one  well  known  for  months  to  all 
frequenters  of  the  bluffs  ;  it  was  as  comical  a  rooster  as 
could  have  been  moulded  out  of  clay.  The  gardener 
had  put  it  on  the  top  of  a  pile  of  stones,  where  two  roads 
crossed,  and  it  was  a  familiar  landmark.  At  last,  one 
day,  a  traveller  carried  it  to  the  Colorado  Springs 
Hotel,  and  showed  it  in  triumph  as  a  rare  trophy.  It 
was  recognized  at  once. 

"  Why,  that  is  the  rooster  from  Austin's  Bluffs." 

"  You  cannot  have  that.  It  is  private  property.  Mr. 
Austin's  gardener  put  it  on  that  pile  of  stones.  You 
must  carry  it  back." 

Public  opinion  was  too  strong  for  the  traveller  to 
resist.  The  rooster  was  carried  back  and  remounted 
on  his  pedestal ;  only,  alas,  to  disappear  again,  in  the 
grasp  of  some  less  honest  visitor,  who,  I  hope,  may  read 
this  paragraph  and  blush  to  recollect  how  he  "  robbed  " 
that  "  roost." 

Twelve  miles  northward  of  Colorado  Springs  is  a 
group  of  beautiful  small  valleys  known  as  Monument 
Park,  from  the  great  number  of  these  strange  sandstone 
rocks.  It  is  the  liveliest  of  all  lonely  places.  You  drive 
over  a  grassy  road  in  the  middle  of  a  narrow  green 
meadow,  the  sides  of  which  slope  up  like  the  sides  of  a 
trough,  the  narrow  strip  of  meadow  ending  abruptly  at 
the  base  of  high  yellow  sandstone  cliffs,  covered  with 
pines,  firs,  and  low  oak  shrubs.  There  are  frequent 
breaks  in  these  cliffs,  and  passes  through  them ;  and  so 
crowded  are  these  passes  and  cliff-sides  with  the  yellow 
stone  columns,  that  it  is  not  at  all  hard  to  fancy  that 


A  SYMPHONY  IN  YELL  0  W  AND  RED.     2 1 7 

they  are  figures  winding  in  and  out  in  a  procession, 
mounting  guard,  lying  down,  sunning  themselves,  lead- 
ing or  embracing  each  other.  Perverse  people  with 
fancies  of  a  realistic  order  have  given  names  to  many  of 
these  figures  and  groups  :  The  Anvil,  The  Quaker  Wed- 
ding, The  Priest  and  Nun,  The  Pincushion,  and  so 
forth.  Photographers,  still  more  perverse,  have  per- 
sisted in  photographing  single  rocks,  or  isolated  groups, 
with  neither  background  nor  foreground.  These  are  to 
be  seen  everywhere,  labelled  "  Rocks  in  Monument 
Park,"  and  are  admirably  calculated  to  repel  people 
from  going  to  what  would  appear  to  be  some  bare,  out- 
lying pinnacle  of  the  universe,  on  which  imps  had  played 
at  making  clay  figures,  with  high  stakes  for  the  ugliest, 
A  true  picture  of  Monument  Park  would  give  a  back- 
ground of  soft  yellow  and  white  sandstone  cliffs,  rounded, 
fluted,  and  grooved,  with  waving  pines  thick  on  the  top 
and  scattering  down  the  sides,  and  the  statue-like  rocks 
half  in  and  half  out  among  the  trees  ;  and  to  make  the 
picture  perfect,  it  should  be  taken  looking  west,  so  that 
the  green  valley  with  its  fantastic  yellow  side  walls  and 
statues  should  be  shut  across  at  the  farther  end  by  a 
high  mountain  range,  dark  blue  against  a  shining  sky. 
Then,  one  seeing  the  picture  could  get  some  faint  notion 
of  what  these  valleys  in  Monument  Park  are  like. 

The  famous  Garden  of  the  Gods,  for  which  everybody 
asks  as  soon  as  he  enters  Colorado,  and  which  nine  out 
of  ten  people  see  for  the  first  time  with  a  ludicrous  sense 
of  disappointment,  is  another  of  these  strange,  rock- 
crowded  parks.  Who  is  responsible  for  the  inappropri- 
ate name  Garden  of  the  Gods,  I  do  not  know  :  one  more 
signally  unfitting  could  hardly  have  been  chosen.  For- 
tress of  the  Gods,  or  Tombs  of  the  Giants,  would  be 
better. 

This  park  lies  only  three  miles  from  Colorado  Springs, 
and  its  grand  gateway  is  in  full  sight  from  every  part 
of  the  town.  Fancy  two  red  sandstone  rocks  three 
hundred  feet  high,  of  irregular  outline  and  surface, 
rising  abruptly  and  perpendicularly  like  a  wall,  with  a 


2i8  BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

narrow  passage-way  between  them.  The  lock  on  your 
right,  as  you  enter  from  the  east,  is  of  the  deepest  brick- 
red  ;  the  one  on  the  left  is  paler,  more  of  a  flesh-color. 
At  their  base  is  a  thick  growth  of  low  oak  bushes,  vivid 
light  green  in  summer,  in  winter  a  scarcely  less  vivid 
brown,  for  many  of  the  leaves  hang  on  until  April.  These 
rocks  are  literally  fretted  full  of  holes  and  rifts  ;  tiny  round 
holes  as  smooth  as  if  an  auger  had  bored  them  ;  ghastly 
crevices  and  chasms  smoothed  and  hollowed  like  sockets 
in  gigantic  skeletons.  Thousands  of  swallows  have 
nestsin  these,  and  at  sunset  it  is  a  beautiful  sight  to 
see  them  circling  high  in  the  air,  perching  for  a  moment 
on  the  glittering  red  spires  and  pinnacles  at  top  of  the 
wall,  and  then  swooping  downward  and  disappearing 
suddenly  where  no  aperture  is  to  be  seen,  as  if  with 
their  little  bills  they  had  cloven  way  for  themselves  into 
the  solid  rock.  Within  a  few  feet  of  the  top  of  the  high- 
est spire  on  the  right-hand  rock  is  a  small  diamond- 
shaped  opening,  a  muUioned  window,  through  which  is 
always  to  be  seen  the  same  diamond-shaped  bit  of  sky, 
bright  blue  or  soft  gray,  or  shadowy  white  if  a  cloud 
happens  to  pause  so  as  to  fill  the  space. 

I  once  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  a  white-breasted 
sparrow  sit  motionless  for  some  minutes  on  a  point  of 
rock  just  above  this  window,  when  the  sky  was  clear 
blue,  and  the  rock  vivid  red  in  a  blazing  sunHght.  Such 
a  picture  as  that  was,  three  hundred  feet  up  in  the  air, 
one  does  not  see  more  than  once  in  a  life-time.  The 
sparrow's  white  breast  looked  Hke  a  tiny  fleece  of  white 
cloud  caught  on  the  rock.  Not  till  two  dark  wings  sud-j 
denly  opened  out  and  bore  the  white  fleece  upward,  dicr. 
I  know  that  it  was  a  bird. 

Passing  through  this  majestic  gateway,  you  find  your- 
self in  the  weirdest  of  places  ;  your  red  road  winds  along 
over  red  ground  thinly  grass-grown,  among  low  cedars, 
pines,  and  firs,  and  through  a  wild  confusion  of  red 
rocks  :  rocks  of  every  conceivable  and  inconceivable 
shape  and  size,  from  pebbles  up  to  gigantic  bowlders, 
from  queer,  grotesque  little  monstrosities,  looking  like 


A  SYMPHONy  IN  YELLOW  AND  RED.     219 

eals,  fishes,  cats,  or  masks,  up  to  colossal  monstrosities 
looking  like  elephants,  like  huge  gargoyles,  like  giants, 
like  sphinxes  eighty  feet  high,  all  bright  red,  all  motion- 
less and  silent,  with  a  strange  look  of  having  been  just 
stopped  and  held  back  in  the  very  climax  of  some  super- 
natural catastrophe.  The  stillness,  the  absence  of  living 
things,  the  preponderance  of  grotesque  shapes,  the  ex- 
pression of  arrested  action,  give  to  the  whole  place,  in 
spite  of  its  glory  of  coloring,  spite  of  the  grandeur  of 
its  vistas  ending  in  snow-covered  peaks  only  six  miles 
away,  spite  of  its  friendly  and  familiar  cedars  and  pines, 
spite  of  an  occasional  fragrance  of  clematis  or  smile  of 
a  daisy  or  twitter  of  a  sparrow,  spite  of  all  these,  a  cer- 
tain uncanniness  of  atmosphere  which  is  at  first  oppres- 
sive. I  doubt  if  one  ever  loved  the  Garden  of  the  Gods 
at  first  sight.  One  must  feel  his  way  to  its  beauty  and 
rareness,  must  learn  it  like  a  new  language  ;  even  if  one 
has  known  nature's  tongues  well,  he  will  be  a  helpless 
foreigner  here.  I  have  fancied  that  its  speech  was  to 
the  speech  of  ordinary  nature  what  the  Romany  is  among 
the  dialects  of  the  civilized, — fierce,  wild,  free,  defiantly 
tender ;  and  I  believe  no  son  of  the  Romany  folk  has 
ever  lived  long  among  the  world's  people  without  droop- 
ing and  pining. 

A  mile  to  the  north  of  the  Garden  of  the  Gods  is  a 
very  beautiful  little  park,  walled  in  by  high  hills  and 
sandstone  rocks  of  many  colors,  red,  pink,  yellow,  and 
pale  gray,  stained  dark  green  and  brown  and  red  in 
markings  so  fantastic  and  capricious,  it  seems  impossi- 
ble that  they  are  not  painted.  The  outlet  from  this  httle 
nook  to  the  north  is  a  narrow  canyon,  little  more  than 
a  cleft  in  the  rocks.  A  snow- fed  brook  runs  down 
through  this  canyon  and  zigzags  through  the  little  park, 
making  it  a  luxuriant  garden  of  cotton-wood  trees, 
shrubs,  and  vines,  and  all  manner  of  flowers.  The 
rocks  here  are  so  towering  and  grand  that  except  for 
the  relief  of  their  briUiant  hues,  and  the  tender  leafing 
and  flowering  things  around  them,  they  would  be  over- 
awing.   There  are  single  shafts  like  obelisks  or  i->^'Va»"ets. 


220  BITS   OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

slender,  pointed,  one  or  two  hundred  feet  high  ;  huge 
slabs  laid  tier  upon  tier  like  giant  sarcophagi :  fretted 
and  turreted  masses  like  abbeys  fallen  into  ruin  :  and 
all  these  are  red  or  painted  in  mosaic  tints  of  green  and 
brown  and  black  and  yellow.  This  is  called  Glen  Eyrie  ; 
in  it  there  is  a  beautiful  home,  and  the  voices  ot  httle 
children  are  often  heard  high  up  on  the  rock  walls, 
where  they  seem  as  contented  and  as  safe  as  the  goats 
which  are  their  comrades. 

I  will  describe  but  one  more  of  these  parks  ;  I  am 
told  that  there  are  scores  of  them  all  along  the  range  of 
foot-hills  running  northward  from  Colorado  Springs.  I 
do  not  believe  that  among  the  scores  is  one  to  be  found 
so  beautiful  as  Blair  Athol.  I  do  not  believe  that  in  all 
the  earth  is  a  spot  to  be  found  more  beautiful  than  Blair 
Athol,  unless  possibly  it  may  be  some  of  the  wild  flower- 
gardens  nestled  at  the  base  of  the  dolomites  in  the  Tyrol. 
Will  there  ever  arise  in  Colorado  a  master  to  paint  her 
rocks  and  mountains  in  the  backgrounds  of  immortal 
pictures,  as  Titian  painted  the  dolomites  ? 

Blair  Athol  lies  six  miles  to  the  northwest  of  Colorado 
Springs.  Its  name  has  a  charm  of  sound  which  is  not 
lessened  when  you  know  that  the  Scotchman  who  owns 
and  named  it  added  to  his  own  name,  Blair,  the  name 
of  Athol,  by  reason  of  his  love  for  house  and  lands  of 
that  name  in  Scotland.  It  is  a  spot  fit  for  a  clan  and 
a  chieftain.  It  lies  lonely  and  still,  biding  its  time. 
The  road  which  leads  into  it  is  so  grass-grown  that  it 
is  hard  to  find.  The  spot  where  it  turns  off  from  the 
main  highway  is  sure  to  be  overlooked  unless  one  keeps 
a  close  watch.  It  seems  not  to  promise  much,  this 
rough,  grass-grown  track.  It  points  toward  foot-hills 
which  are  low  and  close-set,  and  more  than  usually  bare. 
But  in  Colorado  roads,  any  minute's  bend  to  right  or 
left  may  give  you  a  delicious  surprise,  a  new  peak,  a  far 
vista,  a  changed  world.  The  Blair  Athol  road,  taking 
a  sudden  curve  to  the  left,  shows  you  such  a  vista:  a 
foreground  of  low  oaks  and  pines,  the  hills  falling  away 
to  right  and  left  and  revealing  the  mouth  of  a  glen  walled 
chicklv  across  by  hi^h  r^mes  ;  through  this  solid  wall  oi 


A  SYMPHONY  IN   YELLOW  AND   RED.     22  1 

green,  fantastic  gleams  of  deep  red  and  rose  pink  ;  rising 
above  it,  a  spire  or  two  of  bright  yellow ;  on  the  left 
hand,  sharp  ridges  of  dark,  iron-stained  sandstone,  green, 
gray,  yellow,  black  ;  on  the  right  hand,  low,  mound- 
sliapetl  hills  densely  grown  with  pines  and  firs,  the  soil 
shining  red  below  them. 

As  the  road  winds  in,  the  rocks  seem  almost  to  wheel 
and  separate,  so  many  new  vistas  open  between  the 
pines,  so  many  new  rocks  come  in  sight.  A  few  steps 
farther,  and  the  way  seems  suddenly  barred  by  a  huge 
mass  of  yellow  rock  ;  a  broad  light  streams  in  from  the 
left,  the  south  ;  there  Hes  open  country.  Close  to  the 
base  of  this  yellow  rock  wall  the  road  chngs,  still  in 
shade  of  the  pines,  and  turns  an  abrupt  corner  to  the 
left.  You  are  in  the  park.  The  yellow  rock  round 
which  you  have  turned  is  its  east  wall ;  to  the  west  it 
is  walled  with  rocks,  rose-color  and  white  ;  to  the  north 
with  high,  conical,  pine-grown  hills  ;  to  the  south  with 
sharp,  almost  pyramidal  hills  and  masses  of  detached 
and  piled  rocks,  dark  red  and  rose  color.  It  is  smooth 
as  a  meadow;  its  curves  rise  to  the  bases  of  the  rocks 
gently  and  hngeringly.  Groups  of  pines  make  wide 
fringed  circles  of  shades  here  and  there  ;  blue  anemones, 
if  it  is  a  June  day,  dot  the  ground.  A  few  rods  farther 
there  is  a  break  in  the  eastern  wall,  and  framed  in  this 
frame  of  yellow  rock  is  a  broad  picture  of  the  distant 
plains  in  bars  of  sunhght  and  shadow,  gold  and  purple. 
This  is  the  view  on  which  must  look  the  eastern  and 
southern  piazzas  of  the  house  when  it  is  built,  and  to 
that  end  nature  has  left  clear  the  slight  eminence  a  httle 
to  the  north  of  the  centre  of  the  park.  No  man  build- 
ing here  could  think  of  building  elsewhere  than  on  this 
rise,  and  it  is  surely  an  odd  thing  that  not  a  pine  has 
set  foo<-  in  it  ;  that  they  have  grouped  themselves  all 
about  it,  with  as  exquisite  a  consideration  as  the  king's 
head  gardener  could  have  shown. 

Presently  the  road  stops  short  on  the  brink  of  a  ravine, 
in  which  once  there  must  have  been  water,  for  it  is  full 
of  vines  and  shrubs,  a  tangle  of  green.  Because  the 
ravine  is  not  bridged,  we  turn  to  the  right ;   there  is 


222  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

just  room  to  creep  round  the  base  of  the  west  wall  ot 
red  rock.  Turning  this,  lo,  we  are  in  another  little  park, 
wilder  and  more  beautiful  than  the  first.  The  ground 
is  more  broken,  and  there  are  thick  copses  of  low  oaks 
and  pines.  The  red  wall  on  this  side  is  even  stranger 
and  more  fantastic  than  on  the  other.  It  leans  and  top- 
ples, keeping  all  the  while  a  general  slant  northwest  and 
southeast,  which  is,  no  doubt,  to  the  geologist  an  important 
feature  in  its  record.  At  its  base,  huge  dark  red  and 
pale  rose-colored  bowlders  are  piled  in  confusion  ;  its 
top  is  jagged  ;  isolated  peaks  and  projections  on  its 
sides  seem  to  have  been  wrought  and  carven  ;  one  into 
a  great  stone  chair,  one  into  a  canopied  sounding-board. 
The  stone  is  worn  out  in  hollows  and  crevices  into 
which  you  can  thrust  your  arm  up  to  the  elbow.  In 
these,  generations  of  conies  and  squirrels  have  kept 
their  "  feast  of  the  acorn,"  and  left  the  shells  behind. 
This  wall  is  on  your  right ;  on  the  left,  low  mounds  and 
hills,  with  groves  of  pines  in  front,  pines  so  thick  that 
you  get  only  glimpses  through  them  of  the  hills  behind. 
Soon  the  road  ceases,  dies  away  as  if  the  last  traveller 
had  been  caught  up,  at  this  point,  into  the  air.  A  de- 
licious sense  of  being  in  the  wilderness  steals  over  you. 
Climbing  up  on  one  of  the  ridges  of  the  right-hand  wall, 
you  look  down  into  the  first  park,  and  out  across  it  to 
the  plains.  Seen  from  this  height,  the  grouping  of  the 
pines  seems  even  more  marvellous  than  before.  It  is 
impossible  to  leave  off"  wondering  what  law  determined 
it,  if  a  landscape  instinct  and  a  prophetic  sense  of  un- 
built homes  be  in  the  very  veins  of  Colorado  pines. 
The  outlook  eastward  from  this  ridge  is  grand.  It  is 
the  one  which  the  upper  windows  of  the  house  will  com- 
mand :  in  the  foreground  the  huge  yellow  rock,  three 
hundred  feet  long,  and  from  one  to  two  hundred  feet 
high  ;  beyond  this  a  line  of  bluffs,  then  an  interval  of 
undulating  plains,  then  another  line  of  bluffs,  and  then 
the  true  plains,  far,  soft,  and  blue,  as  if  they  were  an 
outlying  ocean  in  which  the  world  was  afloat. 

Immediately  below  this  ridge  lies  the  exquisite  little 
cup-like  park,  with  its  groups  of  pines.     The  rocks  of 


A  SYMPHONY  IN   YELLOW  AND  RED.     223 

its  western  wall,  seen  from  this  point,  are  not  only  dark 
red  and  pale  rose:  they  show  intricate  markings  of 
white  and  gray  and  yellow ;  the  tints  are  as  varied  and 
beautifully  combined  as  you  would  see  in  a  bed  of  Sep- 
tember asters.  Underneath  your  feet  the  hollows  of 
the  rock  are  filled  in  and  matted  with  dry  pine  needles  ; 
here  and  there,  in  a  crevice,  grows  a  tiny  baby  pine,  and 
now  and  then  gleams  out  a  smooth  white  pebble,  cast 
up  by  some  ancient  wave,  and  wedged  tight  in  the  red 
sandstone. 

As  you  climb  higher  and  higher  to  the  north,  there 
are  more  rocks,  more  vistas,  more  pines  and  low  oaks, 
a  wilder  and  wilder  confusion  of  bowlders.  When  you 
reach  the  summit,  the  whole  northern  horizon  swings 
slowly  into  view,  and  completes  the  semicircle  of  plains 
by  the  dark  blue  belt  of  the  Divide.  At  the  very  top 
of  this  pinnacle  is  an  old  pine-tree,  whose  gnarled 
roots  hold  great  bowlders  in  their  clutch,  as  eagles  hold 
prey.  If  the  tree  were  to  blow  oif,  some  one  of  the  days 
when  the  wind  blows  ninety  miles  an  hour  in  Colorado, 
it  looks  as  if  it  must  go  whirling  through  the  air  with 
the  rocks  still  tight  in  its  talons.  There  seems  no  soil 
here,  yet  the  kinni-kinnick  vines  have  spread  shining 
mats  of  thick  green  all  around  the  base  of  the  tree. 
The  green  of  these  and  the  pine,  the  bright  brown  of 
the  fallen  cones,  the  shading  and  multiplying  reds  of  the 
gigantic  rocks,  the  yellow  and  blue  of  the  far-off  plains, 
the  white  and  blue  of  the  far-off  sky,  —  all  these  crowd 
on  the  sight,  as  you  sit  on  this  crowning  pinnacle  of 
Blair  Athol.  The  silence  is  absolute  ;  but  the  color  is 
so  intense,  so  full  of  swift  motion,  change,  and  surprise, 
that  it  seems  to  be  rhythmic  like  scand,  and  to  fill  the 
air  fuller.  It  is  the  final  chord  of  the  symphony  in  yel- 
low and  red,  and  as,  in  the  slow-falling  twilight,  it  grows 
fainter  and  fainter,  one  recalls  some  of  the  vivid  line» 
of  America's  one  lyric  poetess  :  — 

*'  I  see  the  chasm  yawning  dread  ; 
I  see  the  flaming  arch  o'ei-head  ; 
I  stake  my  life  upon  the  red  1  " 


224  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 


COLORADO     SPRINGS. 

I  ONCE  said  of  a  face,  at  hasty  first  sight,  "What 
a  plain  face  !  How  is  it  that  people  have  called  it 
handsome  ?     I  see  no  single  point  of  beauty  in  it." 

That  face  afterward  became  in  my  eyes  not  only 
noble,  fine,  strong,  sweet,  but  beautiful,  apart  from  its 
beauty  as  an  index  and  record  of  the  loveliest  nature 
and  life  I  have  ever  known.  Again  and  again  I  try  to 
recall  the  face  as  I  first  saw  it.  I  cannot.  The  very 
lineaments  seem  totally  changed. 

It  is  much  the  same  with  my  first  impression  of  the 
Colorado  Springs.  I  shall  never  forget  my  sudden 
sense  of  hopeless  disappointment  at  the  moment  when 
I  first  looked  on  the  town.  It  was  a  gray  day  in  No- 
vember. I  had  crossed  the  continent,  ill,  disheartened, 
to  find  a  cHmate  which  would  not  kill.  There  stretched 
before  me,  to  the  east,  a  bleak,  bare,  unrelieved,  deso- 
late plain.  There  rose  behind  me,  to  the  west,  a  dark 
range  of  mountains,  snow-topped,  rocky-walled,  stern, 
cruel,  relentless.  Between  lay  the  town  —  small, 
straight,  new,  treeless. 

"  One  might  die  of  such  a  place  alone,"  I  said  bitterly. 
"  Death  by  disease  would  be  more  natural." 

To-day  that  plain  and  those  mountains  are  to  me  well- 
nigh  the  fairest  spot  on  earth.  To-day  I  say,  "  One 
might  almost  live  on  such  a  place  alone. "  I  have 
learned  it,  as  I  learned  that  human  face,  by  heart ;  and 
there  can  be  a  heart  and  a  significant  record  in  the  face 
of  a  plain  and  a  mountain,  as  much  as  in  the  face  of 
a  man. 

To  those  who  care  to  know  the  position  of  Colorado 


COLORADO  SPRINGS.  225 

Springs  geographically,  it  can  be  said  that  its  latitude  is 
about  the  same  as  that  of  Washington  City ;  that  it  lies 
in  El  Paso  Count}'',  seventy  miles  to  the  south  of  Den- 
ver and  five  miles  from  the  foot  of  Pike's  Peak.  For 
myself  and  for  those  whom  I  might  possibly  win  to  love 
Colorado  Springs  as  I  love  it,  I  would  say  simply  that 
it  is  a  town  lying  due  east  of  the  Great  Mountains  and 
west  of  the  sun. 

Again,  to  those  who  are  curious  as  to  statistics  and 
dates  and  histories  of  affairs,  it  might  be  said  that  three 
years  ago  the  town  of  Colorado  Springs  did  not  exist, 
and  that  to-day  it  numbers  three  thousand  inhabitants  ; 
that  it  is  also  known  as  the  "Fountain  Colony,"  —  a 
name  much  more  attractive  than  Colorado  Springs,  and 
also  more  fitting  for  the  place,  since  there  is  not  a 
spring  of  any  sort  whatever  in  the  town,  and  the  soda 
and  chalybeate  springs,  which  have  done  so  much  to 
make  the  region  famous,  are  five  miles  away,  in  the 
town  of  Manitou. 

The  trustees  of  the  Fountain  Colony  are  men  oi 
means,  position,  and  great  executive  ability.  What  is 
more,  they  are  enthusiasts,  —  enthusiasts  in  their  faith 
in  the  future  of  this  region,  and  enthusiasts  in  their  de- 
termination to  exert  their  controlling  power  in  the  right 
direction.  They  hold  in  their  jurisdiction  a  tract  of 
about  ten  thousand  acres  of  land ;  and  the  money 
derived  from  the  sales  of  two-thirds  of  this  property  is 
to  be  and  is  being  expended  in  the  construction  of  irri- 
gating canals,  roads,  parks,  schools,  the  planting  of 
trees,  and  other  improvements.  All  deeds  contain  an 
improvement  clause,  and  a  clause  prohibiting  the  manu- 
facture or  sale  of  intoxicating  liquors  on  the  property. 
Already  the  liquor-dealers  and  the  company  have  come 
into  coUision,  and  the  contest  will  wax  hotter,  no  doubt; 
but  the  company  is  resolved  that  the  town  shall  continue 
to  be,  as  it  began,  a  temperance  town,  and  it  will  be  an 
evil  day  for  the  little  village  if  ever  the  whiskey  dealers 
and  drinkers  win  the  fight. 

The  streets  of  the  town  are  laid  out  at  right  angles 

IS 


226  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

and  are  alternately  one  hundred  and  one  hundred  and 
forty  feet  wide.  Narrow  streams  of  running  water  are 
'carried  through  all  the  streets,  as  in  Salt  Lake  City. 
Cotton-wood  trees  have  been  planted  regularly  along 
these  little  streams.  Already  these  trees  are  large 
enough  to  give  some  shade.  Already  there  are  in  the 
town,  bakeries,  laundries,  livery  stables,  billiard  halls, 
restaurants,  mills,  shops,  hotels,  and  churches.  In  all 
these  respects,  the  town  is  far  better  provided  than  the 
average  New  England  town  of  the  same  population. 
Remoteness  from  centres  of  supphes  compels  towns,  as 
it  compels  individuals,  to  take  care  of  themselves. 

These  things  I  mention  for  the  sake  of  those  who  are 
anxious  as  to  statistics,  and  dates,  and  the  history  of 
affairs.  There  is  much  more  of  the  same  sort  that 
might  be  told  ;  of  the  great  increase  in  the  value  of 
property,  for  instance,  lots  having  trebled  in  value  with- 
in six  months  ;  of  the  great  success  in  stock-raising  in 
this  region,  the  herds  running  free  on  the  plains  all 
winter  long,  requiring  no  shelter,  and  feeding  well  on 
the  dry,  sweet  grasses ;  of  the  marvellous  curative 
quahties  of  the  climate,  —  asthma,  throat  diseases,  and 
earlier  stages  of  consumption  being,  almost  without  ex- 
ception, cured  by  this  dry  and  rarefied  air.  But  all 
these  things  are  set  forth  in  the  circulars  of  the  Foun- 
tain Colony,  in  the  reports  of  medical  associations,  and 
in  pamphlets  and  treatises  on  Western  immigration  and 
the  future  of  Colorado,  —  set  forth  accurately,  even  elo- 
quently. The  statistician,  the  pioneer,  the  builder  of 
railroads,  has  his  own  language,  his  own  sphere;  and 
to  him  one  must  go  for  the  facts  of  a  country,  for  the 
catalogue  of  its  resources,  the  forecasting  of  its  destiny. 
But  it  is  perhaps  also  worth  while  to  look  at  a  lover's 
portrait  of  it.  A  picture  has  uses,  as  well  as  a  gazeteer. 
There  is  more  stimulus  sometimes  in  suggestion  than 
in  information;  more  delight  in  the  afterglow  of  remi- 
niscence than  in  the  clear  detail  of  observation.  For 
myself,  therefore,  and  for  those  alone  whom  I  might 
possibly  win  to  love  Colorado  Springs  as  I  love  it,  I  re* 


COLORADO  SPRINGS.  227 

peat  that  it  is  a  town  lying  east  of  the  Great  Mountains 
and  west  of  the  sun.  Between  it  and  the  morning  sun 
and  between  it  and  the  far  southern  horizon  stretch 
plains  which  have  all  the  beauty  of  the  sea  added  to 
the  beauty  of  plains.  Like  the  sea  they  are  ever  chang- 
ing in  color,  and  seem  illimitable  in  distance.  But  they 
are  full  of  tender  undulations  and  curves,  which  never 
vary  except  by  light  and  shade.  They  are  threaded 
here  and  there  by  narrow  creeks,  whose  course  is  re- 
vealed by  slender,  winding  lines  of  cotton-wood  trees, 
dark  green  in  summer,  and  in  winter  of  a  soft,  clear 
gray,  more  beautiful  still.  They  are  broken  here  and 
there  by  sudden  rises  of  table-lands,  sometimes  abrupt, 
sharp-sided,  and  rocky,  looking  like  huge  castles  or  lines 
of  fortifications  ;  sometimes  soft,  mound-like,  and  im- 
perceptibly widening,  like  a  second  narrow  tier  of  plain 
overlying  the  first. 

The  sloping  sides  of  these  belts  of  table-land  are 
rifted  and  hollowed  and  fluted  endlessly.  Miniature 
canyons,  filled  with  green  growths,  nooks  and  dells,  and 
overlapping  mounds,  make  up  the  mystery  of  their 
beauty.  Water-washed  stones  and  honeycombed  rocks 
are  strewed  on  many  of  them,  showing  that  their  shapes 
were  rounded  ages  ago  by  mighty  waves.  No  wonder, 
then,  that  these  plains  add,  as  I  said,  to  the  beauty  of 
plains  all  the  beauty  of  the  sea.  Their  surface  is  cov- 
ered with  close,  low  grasses, — amber  brown,  golden 
yellow,  and  claret  red  in  winter  ;  in  summer  of  a  pale 
olive  green,  far  less  beautiful,  vivid,  and  vitalized  than 
the  browns  and  yellows  and  reds  of  the  winter.  But  in 
the  summer  come  myriads  of  flowers,  lighting  up  the 
olive  green  background,  making  it  into  a  mosaic  of 
white  and  purple  and  pink  and  scarlet  and  yellow. 
Smooth,  hard  roads  cross  these  plains,  north,  south, 
east,  west,  without  turning,  without  guide-post,  without 
landmark  ;  many  of  them  seeming  so  aimless,  endless, 
that  one  wonders  why  they  are  there  at  all.  It  takes 
but  a  few  times  driving  anywhere  to  mark  out  a  road. 
If  a  ditch  overflows  and  a  gully  is  made,  the  next  hali 


228  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

dozen  passers-by  drive  a  little  to  the  right  or  left ;  the 
new  road  is  begun  and  practically  made,  and  after  a  few 
mornings  purple  vetches  and  daisies  will  be  blossoniing 
in  the  old  one.  Looking  northward  over  this  sea-plain, 
one  sees  at  the  horizon  a  dark  blue  line,  hke  a  wall, 
straight,  even-topped,  unbroken.  This  is  the  "  Divide," 
—  another  broad-spreading  belt  of  table-land,  lifting 
suddenly  from  the  plains,  running  from  east  to  west, 
and  separating  them.  Its  highest  point  is  eight  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  sea,  and  is  crossed  by  the  Denver 
and  Rio  Grande  Railroad.  On  its  very  summit  lies  a 
lake,  whose  shores  in  June  are  like  garden-beds  of 
flowers,  and  in  October  are  blazing  with  the  colors  of 
rubies  and  carnelians. 

It  is  a  gracious  and  beautiful  country  the  Divide, 
eight  or  ten  miles  in  width  and  seventy  long,  well 
wooded  and  watered,  and  with  countless  glens  and  valleys 
full  of  castellated  rocks  and  pine  groves.  All  this  one 
learns  journeying  across  it ;  but,  looking  up  at  it  from 
Colorado  Springs,  it  is  simply  a  majestic  wall  against 
the  northern  sky, — blue,  deep,  dark,  unfathomable 
blue,  as  an  ocean  wave  might  be  if  suddenly  arrested 
at  its  highest  and  crystallized  into  a  changeless  and 
eternal  boundary.  It  is  thirty  or  forty  miles  away  from 
us  ;  but  in  every  view  we  find  our  eyes  fastening  upon 
it,  tracing  it,  wondering  how,  not  being  built  of  lapis 
lazuli  or  clouded  sapphire,  it  can  be  so  blue.  It  is  the 
only  spot  in  our  glorious  outlook  which  is  uniform  of 
color.  Sunsets  may  turn  the  whole  north  sky  golden 
yellow,  and  the  afterglow  may  stretch  rosy  red  the 
entire  circle  round,  while  the  plains  below  fade  from 
brilliant  sunlight  to  soft,  undistinguishable  gray  ;  but 
the  wall  of  the  Divide  remains  always  of  its  own  un- 
changing blue.  Storms  sweep  over  it,  black  and  fierce, 
but  the  blue  shows  through.  Snow  covers  it  and  the 
winter  sky  arches  white  above  it,  but  still  its  forest 
ranks  of  pines  and  firs  stand  solid,  constant  blue  in  the 
horizon.  This  is  a  dim  picture  of  what  we  who  dwell 
in  this  town  east  of  the  mountains  and  wost  of  the  sub 


COLORADO  SPRINGS.  229 

see  when  we  look  south  and  east  or  north,  —  a  very  dim 
picture,  since  it  sets  forth  only  the  shapes  and  propor- 
tions, and  can  in  no  wise  suggest  the  colors.  If  I  say 
that  even  on  this  day  (the  two  hundred  and  eleventh 
day  that  I  have  looked  on  these  plains)  I  see  colors  and 
combinations  of  colors  I  never  saw  before,  and  that  out 
of  the  two  hundred  and  eleven  days  there  have  been 
no  two  days  alike,  who  will  believe  me?  No  one, — 
perhaps  not  even  they  who  have  dwelt  by  my  side  ;  yet 
it  is  true,  and  a  calendar  might  be  kept  which  would 
prove  it.  In  such  a  calendar  there  would  be  records  of 
days  when  the  whole  plain  looked  like  a  soft  floor  of 
gray  mist,  its  mounds  and  hills  like  mounds  and  hills 
of  vapor,  slow  curling  and  rounding;  when  it  looked 
like  a  floor  of  beaten  gold,  even,  solid,  shining ;  or  like 
a  tapestry,  woven  in  bands  of  brown  and  yellow,  —  a 
magic  tapestry,  too,  for  the  bands  are  ever  shifting, 
deepening,  paling,  advancing,  receding,  vanishing  and 
coming  again,  as  the  clouds  come  or  go,  deepen  or  pale, 
in  the  skies  above  ;  or,  if  it  be  winter,  like  a  trackless, 
illimitable,  frozen  ocean,  with  here  and  there  dark  ice- 
bergs looming  up.  Not  the  furthest  Polar  Sea  can  look 
like  wider,  icier  Arctic  space  than  does  this  sunny  plain 
when  it  is  white  with  snow. 

In  such  calendar  there  would  be  records  of  hours 
when,  in  spite  of  the  whole  sunset  plains  being  dark- 
ened by  overhanging  clouds,  the  sunlight  floods  every 
bluff  and  castellated  mound  in  the  east,  lifting  them  and 
making  them  look  like  fairy  realms,  with  spires  and 
slopes  and  turreted  walls  of  gold  ;  of  hours  again  when 
the  plains,  being  in  strong,  full  light,  clouds  chance  to 
rest  above  the  same  bluffs,  transforming  them  into  grim 
and  dark  and  terrible  fortresses,  bearing  no  semblance 
to  the  smiling  fairy  castles  of  gold  they  were  the  day 
before  ;  of  hours  on  some  winter  morning,  when  every 
tiny  grass-blade,  flower-stalk,  and  shrub  on  the  whole 
plain  has  been  covered  with  snow  crystals  in  the  night, 
—  not  with  the  common  round  feathery  crystals,  but 
with  acicular  crystals  fine  as  a  cobweb  thread,  an  inch 


230  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

or  an  inch  and  a  half  long,  and  so  dose  set  mat  even 
stout  weed-stalks  curve  and  bend  under  the  weight  of 
their  snowy  fringe.  Upon  these  myriads,  acres,  miles  of 
crystals  flashes  the  hot  sun,  and  almost  in  the  twinkhng 
of  an  eye  the  plain  changes  from  soft  and  solid  white  to 
a  field  of  glistening  sparkles,  and  from  the  ghstening 
sparkles  back  to  its  pale  yellows  and  browns.  Even  in 
the  few  seconds  while  I  have  been  walking  past  an  oak 
shrub  I  have  seen  every  dried  leaf  on  it  change  from 
white  to  brown,  so  marvellous  is  this  Colorado  sun,  — 
its  direct  rays  burning  as  through  a  burning-glass. 
There  would  be  records  of  hours  when  having  gone  a 
few  hundred  feet  up  on  the  eastward  slope  of  Cheyenne 
Mountain,  we  sat  down  in  a  fragrant  garden  of  gillias, 
scarlet  penstemons,  spiraeas,  wild  roses,  columbines,  red 
lilies,  lupines,  harebells,  and  myriads  more  which  we 
knew  not,  and  looked  off  over  the  plains.  Though  they 
were  only  three  or  four  miles  away,  they  looked  as  if  we 
might  journey  for  days  and  not  reach  them,  —  so  wide, 
so  remote,  so  deep  down,  so  ineffably  soft  and  misty. 
We  sat,  as  I  say,  in  a  garden  ;  but  there  was  in  the 
garden,  besides  the  flowers,  a  confusion  of  great  rocks 
and  oak  bushes  and  tall  pines  and  firs.  There  were  no 
level  spaces,  only  nooks  between  rocks  and  here  and 
there  zigzag  intervals  :  but  on  every  inch  of  ground 
some  green  or  flowering  thing  grew  ;  ravines,  with  un- 
suspected brooks  in  them,  were  on  each  hand.  Parting 
the  tangles  of  bushes  and  creeping  or  springing  down 
<-heir  sides,  we  found  great  clumps  of  golden  and  white 
:olumbines  and  green  ferns. 

Between  the  pines  and  firs  were  wonderful  vistas  of 
the  radiant  plain.  Each  ghmpse  was  a  picture  in  itself, 
• — now  an  open  space  of  clear,  sunny  distance  ;  now  a 
Delt  of  cotton-wood  trees,  making  a  dark  green  oasis  in 
the  yellow ;  now  the  majestic  bluffs,  looking  still  more 
castlehke,  framed  in  the  dark  foreground  hues  of  pine 
boughs.  We  were  in  shadow.  The  sun  had  set  for  us  ; 
but  it  was  yet  early  afternoon  on  the  plain  and  it  was 
brilliant  with  sun.     As  we  went  slowly  down,  bearing 


COLORADO    SPRING^.  231 

our  sheaves  of  flowers,  the  brilliance  slowly  faded,  and 
the  lower  sunset  light  cast  soft  shadows  on  every  mound 
and  hill  and  hollow.  The  whole  plain  seemed  dimpling 
with  shadows  ;  each  instant  they  deepened  and  moved 
eastward  ;  first  revealing  and  then  slowly  hiding  each 
rise  and  fall  in  the  vast  surface.  Away  in  the  east, 
sharply  against  the  sky,  Hues  of  rocky  bluffs  gleamed 
white  as  city  walls  ;  close  at  the  base  of  the  mountain 
the  foot-hills  seemed  multiplied  and  transfigured  into 
countless  velvet  mounds.  The  horizon  Hne  seemed  to 
curve  more  and  more,  as  if  somehow  the  twilight  were 
folding  the  world  up  for  night,  and  we  were  on  some 
outside  shore  watching  it.  One  long,  low  cloud  lay  in 
amber  and  pink  bars  above  the  blue  wall  of  the  Divide, 
a  vivid  rosy  band  of  afterglow  spread  slowly  in  the  east 
and  south  ;  and  the  town  below  us  looked  strangely  like 
an  army,  with  its  wide  avenues  and  battalion-like  paral- 
lelograms of  houses. 

If  I  have  dwelt  long  on  what  one  sees  looking  north, 
east,  south  from  Colorado  Springs,  it  is  not  because  the 
westward  outlook —  I  had  almost  said  uplook  —  is  less 
grand,  less  satisfving ;  rather  because  the  reverent  love 
for  mountains  is  like  a  reverent  love  for  a  human  being, 
—  reticent,  afraid  of  the  presumptuousness  of  speech. 

Looking  westward,  we  see  only  mountains.  Their 
summits  are  in  the  skies,  ten,  twelve,  fourteen  thousand 
feet  high.  Their  foot-hills  and  foot-hill  slopes  reach 
almost  to  the  base  of  the  plateau  on  which  the  town 
stands.  Whether  the  summits  or  the  foot-hills  are  more 
beautiful  one  for  ever  wonders  and  is  never  sure.  The 
summits  are  sharp,  some  of  them  of  bare  red  rock, 
gleaming  under  the  summer  sunrise  hke  pyramids  of 
solid  garnet,  yet  blue  again  at  sunset,  —  of  a  purple 
blue,  as  soft  as  the  purple  blue  of  grapes  at  their  ripest. 
Sometimes  in  winter,  they  are  more  beautiful  still.  —  so 
spotless  white,  stately,  and  solemn  that  if  one  believes 
there  is  a  city  of  angels  he  must  believe  that  these  are 
the  towers  and  gates  thereof. 

The  foot-hills  are  closely  grown  with  grass.    In  winter 


232  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

they  are,  like  the  prairies,  brown  and  yellow  and  claret, 
varying  in  tint  and  shade,  according  to  the  different 
growths  and  in  every  shifting  light  from  sunrise  to  sun- 
set. No  one  who  has  not  seen  can  fancy  the  beauty  of 
a  belt  of  such  colors  as  these  at  base  of  mountains  of 
red  and  yellow  sandstone.  The  foot-hills  lap  and  over- 
lap and  interrupt  each  other,  sometimes  repeating  in 
softened  miniature  the  outline  of  the  crowding  and  over- 
lapping peaks  above.  Here  and  there  sharp  ridges  of 
sandstone  rock  have  been  thrown  up  among  them.  The 
spaces  between  these  are  so  hollowed  and  smooth 
moulded  that  they  look  like  beautiful  terraced  valleys, 
with  jagged  red  walls  on  either  hand.  When  sunset 
casts  alternate  beams  of  light  and  shade  across  these 
valleys,  and  the  red  walls  glow  redder  and  redder,  they 
look  like  veritable  enchanted  lands;  and  if  one  looks 
up  to  the  snow-topped  mountains  above  the  sense  of 
enchantment  is  only  heightened.  And  this  is  what  Col- 
orado Springs  sees,  looking  west.  Are  there  many  spots 
on  earth  where  the  whole  rounded  horizon  is  thus  full 
of  beauty  and  grandeur,  and  where  to  all  the  grandeur 
of  outline  and  beauty  of  color  is  added  the  subtle  and 
indescribable  spell  of  the  rarefied  air  and  light  of  six 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea  1 

One  day  last  winter  we  saw  a  prismatic  cloud  in  the 
sky.  It  was  high  noon.  The  cloud  lay  close  to  the 
sun :  it  was  fleecy,  yet  solid  ;  white,  yet  brilliant  with 
all  the  rainbow  tints  of  mother-of-pearl.  All  who  saw 
it  held  their  breaths  with  a  sense  of  something  preter- 
natural in  its  beauty.  Every  instant  the  tints  changed. 
They  paled,  they  deepened,  they  shifted  place,  —  pink, 
yellow,  green,  separate,  blended,  iridescent.  As  one 
holds  up  a  mother-of-pearl  shell  to  the  light,  turning  it 
slowly  back  and  forth  to  catch  the  rays,  it  seemed  as  if 
some  invisible  hand  must  be  holding  up  this  shining 
cloud  and  moving  it  slowly  back  and  forth  in  the  sun. 
The  wonderful  spectacle  lasted  some  ten  minutes  ;  then 
slowly  the  iridescence  disappeared,  leaving  the  cloud 
simply  a  white  and  fleecy  cloud,  Hke  myriads  of  others 


COLORADO   SPRINGS.  233 

In  the  sky.  It  seemed  to  me  emblematic  of  the  beauty 
of  this  whole  panorama,  which  has  as  mystical  a  quahty 
of  endless  change  as  the  iridescent  tints  of  mother-of- 
pearl.  While  light  lasts  never  shall  mother-of-pearl 
show  twice  exactly  the  same  harmony,  exactly  the  same 
succession  of  tints.  And  I  beHeve  that  hour  after  hour, 
day  after  day.  and  year  after  year,  these  plains  and 
mountains  will  never  show  twice  the  same  harmony,  the 
same  succession.  Most  earnestly  I  believe,  also,  that 
there  is  to  be  born  of  these  plains  and  mountains,  all 
along  the  great  central  plateaus  of  our  continent,  the 
very  best  life,  physical  and  mental,  of  the  coming  cen- 
turies. There  are  to  be  patriarchal  families,  living  with 
their  herds,  as  patriarchs  lived  of  old  on  the  eastern 
plains.  Of  such  life,  such  blood,  comes  culture  a  few 
generations  later,  —  a  culture  all  the  better  because  it 
comes  spontaneously  and  not  of  effort,  is  a  growth  and 
not  a  graft.  It  was  in  the  east  that  the  wise  men  saw 
the  star  ;  but  it  was  westward  to  a  high  mountain,  in  a 
lonely  place,  that  the  disciples  were  led  for  the  trans- 


*34  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 


CHEYENNE   CANYON. 

THERE  are  nine  "places  of  divine  worship"  in 
Colorado  Springs,  —  the  Presbyterian,  the  Cum- 
berland Presbyterian,  the  Methodist,  the  South  Method- 
ist, the  Episcopal,  the  Congregationalist,  the  Baptist, 
the  Unitarian,  and  Cheyenne  Canyon. 

Cheyenne  Canyon  is  three  miles-  out  of  town  ;  but  the 
members  of  its  congregation  find  this  no  objection. 
They  are  forced  just  now  to  go  over  a  troublesome  road 
to  reach  it.  Until  within  the  past  month  the  road  led 
directly  up  one  of  the  main  spurs  of  the  mountain, 
through  fine  breezy  fields,  with  glorious  views  in  all 
directions  ;  but  the  owners  of  these  fields  have  seen  fit 
to  shut  them  up  by  wire  fences,  which  neither  man  nor 
horse  can  pass,  and  now  all  Cheyenneans  must  go  up 
the  creek,  through  a  tangle  of  sand-bar,  willow  copse, 
meadow,  field,  farm,  ford,  and  scramble,  which  is  hard 
at  first  to  learn,  but  which  will  soon  become  dearer  to 
their  hearts  than  the  old  road. 

The  day  we  first  drove  over  it  we  were  followed  by  a 
party  of  four  laboring  men,  also  seeking  the  way.  Sit- 
tings are  free  in  the  cathedral  of  Cheyenne  Canyon. 

"  Is  this  the  road  to  Cheyenne  Canyon  ?  "  we  called 
back  to  them,  at  a  point  where,  to  say  truth,  there 
seemed  very  little  road  at  all,  only  faint  traces  of  wheels 
in  a  meadow  radiant  with  golden  daisies.  They  stopped 
singing  to  answer. 

"Reckon  so,  sir.  That's  where  we're  going;  but 
we've  never  been  before." 


CHEYENNE    CANYON.  235 

lainter,  and,  after  leading  us  across  the  creek  and  up  a 
steep  bank,  thick  with  cotton-wood  trees,  ended  in  front 
of  a  log  cabin.  In  the  doorway  sat  a  girl,  with  a  mass 
of  dark  auburn  hair,  from  which  no  one  could  easily 
look  away.  Once  before  I  have  seen  such  hair.  Very 
sure  I  am  that  it  rarely  happens  to  a  person  to  see 
two  such  sights  in  a  lifetime.  On  her  knees  she  held 
her  boy,  a  superb  baby,  two  years  old.  He  was  shining 
from  his  Sunday-morning  bath,  and  every  now  and  then 
he  sobbed  at  the  memory  of  it.  Poor  little  fellow,  "he 
had  cried  hard  all  the  time,"  the  young  girl-mother  said. 
She  looked  at  us  wistfully  as  she  told  us  how  to  find  the 
road  to  the  canyon.  It  was  an  event  in  her  day  our  driv- 
ing up  to  her  door,  and  I  was  glad  we  had  taken  the  wrong 
ford. 

"This  is  the  wrong  road.  The  ford  is  higher  up," 
we  called  out  to  the  wagonful  of  men  as  we  met  them 
following  us. 

"All  right,"  they  answered  gaily,  wheeling  their  ugly 
little  mules  ;  and,  as  we  drove  on  ahead,  they  broke  out 
into  full  chorus  of  the  hearty  Methodist  song :  — 

"  If  you  get  there  before  we  do, 
Tell  them  that  we  are  coming  too." 

The  ford  was  a  picture.  The  creek  widened  just 
above  it,  and  was  divided  by  three  long  sand-bars  into 
three  small  zigzagging  streams,  which  looked  as  if  the 
creek  were  untwisting  itself  into  shining  strands.  The 
water  was  of  amber  brown,  so  clear  that  the  pebbles 
gleamed  through.  The  sand-bars  were  set  thick  with 
spikes  of  the  blue  penstemon,  a  flower  like  a  foxglove, 
growing  here  some  foot  or  foot  and  a  half  high,  with 
its  bright  blue  blossoms  set  so  thick  along  the  stem 
that  they  hinder  each  other's  opening. 

As  I  looked  up  from  the  ford  to  the  mouth  of  the 
canyon,  I  was  reminded  of  some  of  the  grand  old 
altar-pieces  of  the  early  centuries,  where,  lest  the  pic- 
tures of  saints  and  angels  and  divine  beings  should 
seem  too  remote,  too  solemn  and  overawing,  the  paint- 


236  BITS   OF  TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

ers  used  to  set  at  the  base,  rows  of  human  children,  gay 
and  mirthful,  leaping  and  laughing  or  playing  viols. 
So  lay  this  sunny  belt  of  sparkling  water,  glistening 
sand,  and  joyous  blue  blossom,  at  the  base  of  the 
picture  made  by  the  dark  mouth  of  the  canyon,  where 
two  great  mountains  had  recoiled  and  fallen  apart  from 
each  other,  leaving  a  chasm,  midway  in  which  rose  a 
smaller  mountain  of  sharp  rocks,  like  a  giant  sentry  dis- 
puting the  way.  Forests  of  pines  fill  the  rift  on  either 
side  this  rock,  and  their  dark  lines  stretch  high  up, 
right  and  left,  nearly  to  the  top  of  each  mountain. 
Higher  and  ruggeder  peaks  rise  beyond,  looking  as  if 
they  must  shut  the  canyon  sharply,  as  a  gate  closes  an 
alley;  but  they  do  not.  Past  them,  among  them,  in 
spite  of  them,  the  creek  took  its  right  of  way,  the 
mountains  and  rocks  yielded,  and  the  canyon  winds. 

Entering  it,  one  loses  at  first  the  sense  of  awe,  of 
grandeur.  It  might  be  any  bright,  brook-stirred  wood. 
Overhead  a  canopy  of  fir  and  willow  boughs,  with  glim- 
mers of  sky  coming  through  ;  thickets  of  wild  roses, 
spiraeas,  glittering  green  oak  bushes,  and  myriads  of 
lovely  lesser  things  on  each  hand ;  tiny,  threadlike 
streams  lapsing  along  gently  between  green,  grassy 
paths  and  sandy  rims  ;  great  bowlders,  however,  and 
bits  of  driftwood  here  and  there,  telling  a  tale  of  slides 
and  freshets ;  and  presently,  even  while  looking  back, 
we  can  see  glimpses  of  the  wide  distances  of  the  plain  ; 
and,  almost  before  we  know  that  we  are  in  the  canyon, 
the  path  narrows,  the  walls  grow  high,  and  the  brook 
has  become  a  swift,  leaping,  white-foamed  torrent, 
which  we  must  cross  carefully  on  a  slippery,  dead  log. 
In  a  few  moments  we  cross  again.  The  path  seems  a 
caprice  ;  but  there  is  small  choice  of  foot-holds  on  the 
sides  of  this  canyon.  This  time  we  cross  on  a  superb 
pine-tree,  fallen,  still  green,  with  every  bough  on  the 
upper  side  waving,  and  those  on  the  lower  side  dipping 
and  swaying  in  the  swift  water  below.  Here  we  come 
to  a  sheer  rock  wall  on  the  right,  and  on  the  left  three 
high,   jagged   red-sandstone   rocks,    hundreds   of    feet 


CHEYENNE   CANYON.  237 

high,  marked,  and,  as  it  were,  mapped,  with  black  and 
green  lichens.  Tall  firs,  growing  in  the  edge  of  the 
creek,  reach  one-third  of  the  way  up  these  walls.  Tall 
firs,  growing  on  their  very  tops,  look  like  bushes. 
Climbing  a  little  further,  now  in  shadow,  now  in  sun, 
now  in  thickets  of  willow  close  on  the  water's  edge, 
now  on  bare  and  gravelly  slopes  higher  up.  we  come  to 
the  third  crossing.  This  is  a  more  serious  aifair. 
Stones  and  driftwood.  That  is  all.  It  is  a  species  of 
dam.  It  would  give  way  if  the  water  hurried  much. 
Around  every  stone  is  a  white  line  of  foam.  Above  the 
dam  is  a  smooth,  clear  space,  —  so  clear  that  the  shadow 
of  the  upper  edge  of  the  rock  wall,  with  the  shrubs 
waving  there,  is  marked  distinct  and  dark  on  the  shin- 
ing gravel  bed.  Tiny  tufts  of  fern  nod  from  crevices, 
and  one  brave  strawberry  vine  vainly  flings  out  its  scar- 
let runners  in  the  air  far  above  our  heads.  The  path 
grows  wilder ;  fallen  trees  cross  it,  piled  bowlders  crowd 
it  ;  the  rock  walls  are  hollowed,  hewn,  piled,  and  over- 
piled  ;  they  are  scarred,  seamed,  lined  with  the  traces 
and  records  of  ages,  of  glaciers  and  avalanches,  of 
flood  and  perhaps  of  fire.  Surely  the  black  seams  and 
lines  look  as  if  they  might  have  been  burned  and 
branded  in.  Still,  the  firs  and  pines  and  willows  make 
beautiful  shade  along  the  brook.  It  is  still  a  flowery, 
spicy,  sunny  summer  wood  through  which  the  path 
climbs.  Clematis  and  woodbine  tangle  the  trees  to- 
gether. Up  the  whole  length  of  the  highest  pines 
races  the  woodbine,  and  flings  out  shining  streamers  at 
top ;  while  the  clematis,  as  much  humbler  as  it  is  more 
oeautiful,  lies  in  long,  trailing  wreaths  on  the  lower 
bushes,  even  on  the  ground.  Again  and  again  the  path 
crosses  the  brook,  we  forget  to  count  how  many  times. 
Each  crossing  is  a  new  picture.  Now  sharp  stone  peaks, 
seeming  to  wheel  suddenly  across  the  canyon,  as  if  there 
could  be  no  going  further  ;  now  the  walls  widening  and 
curving  out  into  a  sort  of  horseshoe  shape,  with  a  beautiful 
little  grove  of  pines  in  the  hollow ;  now,  turning  a  sharp 
corner  and  springing,  for  a  rod  or  more,  from  bowlder  to 


238  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT   HOME. 

bowlder,  in  the  widest  part  of  the  creek,  we  come  to  a 
spot  where,  standing  midway  in  the  stream,  we  look 
down  into  a  huge  stone  fortress  half  filled  with  pines, 
and  up  into  another  stone  fortress  half  filled  with  pines. 
Just  above  these  close-walled  fortresses  comes  a  wider 
space,  where  the  rocky  sides  take  gentle  slopes,  with 
here  and  there  soft,  grassy  spaces,  even  to  their  very 
tops,  —  grassy  spaces  where  yellow  columbines  and 
white  spiraeas  wave,  safe  from  all  touch  save  that  of 
winds  and  birds  and  insects.  What  an  estate  for  a  lark 
or  a  butterfly,  such  a  little  grassy  bit  as  this,  a  thousand 
feet  up  on  a  rocky  wall,  with  Colorado  sun  to  keep  him 
warm,  and  all  Cheyenne  Creek  to  drink  from  !  Below 
these  pine-tufted,  grass-tufted  walls,  the  brook  runs 
slower.  Shadows  of  every  thing  growing  on  the  banks 
flicker  on  its  bed,  and  the  flickering  shadows  on  the 
bed  are  thrown  back  again  in  flickering  lights  on  shelv- 
ing rocks  which  overhang  it.  A  lovely  mertensia,  with 
its  tiny  pink  and  blue  bells,  hangs  over  the  edge  of  the 
water,  and  a  great  yellow  daisy  stands  up  triumphant  in 
a  sunny  corner,  giving  the  one  bit  of  strong  color 
needed  to  make  the  picture  perfect.  To  make  the  pic- 
ture perfect,  to  the  eye,  and  to  make  it  perfect  to  the 
heart,  two  babies  lie  cooing  in  the  shade.  A  German 
family,  —  father,  mother,  children,  —  friends,  and  neigh- 
bors, are  dining  just  here,  between  services.  They  are 
poor  people,  but  the  table-cloth  spread  on  the  ground 
is  snowy  white,  and  the  babies  look  fresh  and  clean. 
Who  can  reckon  the  good  which  such  a  day  may  do  in 
the  laboring  man's  life  1  Soul,  body,  heart,  all  re- 
freshed, stimulated,  purified.  The  very  canyon  itself 
seemed  glorified  in  our  eyes  as  we  passed  this  cheery 
bit  of  home  in  it. 

One  '  more  crossing  and  we  have  reached  a  barrier 
past  which,  though  the  creek  can  come,  we  cannot  go. 
In  a  grand  stone  chamber  we  stand  and  look  up  to  its 
northern  wall,  over  which  the  creek  comes  leaping  at 
three  steps.  The  wall  is  in  sloping  terraces,  hollowed 
and  scooped  into   basins   and  pools.     There   are   six 


CHEYENNE    CANYON.  239 

more  such  terraces  of  pools  and  basins  higher  up  ;  but 
we  cannot  see  them  from  below.  Midway  in  the  last 
fall  there  is  a  font-like  projection  of  rock,  into  w-hich 
the  stream  falls,  —  how  deep  no  man  knows,  but  so 
deep  that  nearly  the  whole  body  of  water  is  thrown 
back  in  a  great  sheaf-shaped  jet  of  shining  drops, — a 
fountain  in  the  centre  of  a  fall,  fantastic,  unexpected 
beautiful.  Behind  the  sheaf  of  falHng  drops,  smooth 
swift  threads  of  water  run  in  unbroken  lines  of  descent, 
making  a  background  of  shifting  silver  under  the  glit- 
tering shower  of  diamond  drops.  Below  the  sheaf  of 
falHng  drops,  an  amber,  silent  pool,  marvellously  un- 
disturbed by  the  ceaseless  fall  which  rains  upon  it,  its 
outer  ripples  breaking  as  gently  on  the  bright  gravel 
rims  at  base  of  the  rocky  walls,  as  if  only  a  languid 
summer  breeze  had  stirred  its  surface.  It  needs  but 
one  wall  more  to  make  this  basin  of  the  Cheyenne 
Falls  seem  the  bottom  of  a  granite  well,  with  sides  hun- 
dreds of  feet  high  ;  yet  the  noon  sun  hes  hot  in  its 
depths,  and  the  water  is  warm  to  the  taste. 

From  the  bottom  of  this  well  one  looks  up  incredu- 
lously to  the  top,  which  he  is  told  he  can  reach  by  a  not 
very  difficult  path.  ''It  is  only  a  matter  of  time,"  say 
they  who  are  in  the  habit  of  going  to  the  top  of  Chey- 
enne Canyon.     "  You  must  not  hurry  going  up." 

''  It  is  also  a  question  of  strength,"  will  be  retorted 
by  the  ordinary  traveller,  when  he  finds  himself  invited 
to  mount  some  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  feet  up  the 
side  of  a  mountain,  where  for  many  a  long  interval 
there  is  no  path,  only  perpendicular,  sliding,  roUing, 
crunching  surfaces  of  disintegrated  rock,  gravel,  and 
fine  sand,  in  which  he  seems  to  shp  back  at  every  step 
further  than  he  climbs,  and  in  which  he  can  get  a 
breathing  space  only  by  swinging  himself  shar^^ly 
around  in  front  of  a  pine-tree  and  bracing  himself 
against  it,  never  without  fear  that  his  weight  will  detach 
the  tree  from  its  perilous  slant,  and  he  and  tree  shoot 
down  together  in  confusion.  Stinging  recollections 
crowd  on  his  m'nd,  of  unpleasant  arithmetical  problem."* 


240  BITS  OF   TRA\^EL   AT  HOME. 

given  to  youth,  in  which  a  certain  number  of  steps  for- 
ward are  set  in  comph'cated  formula  with  a  certain 
number  of  slips  back,  with  the  question  at  the  end, 
"  How  long  will  it  take  to  go  a  mile  ?"  He  also  thinks 
more  of  Bruce's  spider  than  he  has  thought  for  many 
years.  It  is  an  ugly,  hard  climb.  But  ah,  the  reward 
of  ugly,  hard  climbs  in  this  world  !  Mentally,  morally, 
physically,  what  is  worth  so  much  as  outlooks  from 
high  places  ?  All  the  beauty,  all  the  mystery,  all  the 
grandeur  of  the  canyon  as  we  had  seen  it  below  were 

•  only  the  suggestion,  the  faint  prelude  of  its  grandeur  as 
seen  from  above. 

'  We  looked  out  to  the  east  over  the  tops  of  the  peaks. 
Long  stone  ridges,  running  south  and  north,  seemed  to 
be  interlocked  with  each  other,  as  fingers  can  interlock 
with  fingers  ;  and  each  line  of  interlacement  was  marked 
by  the  crowding  tops  of  pines  and  firs.  Running  trans- 
versely to  these,  now  and  then  hiding  them,  winding 
and  winding  again,  sometimes  at  sharp  angles,  but  still 
keeping  its  direction  east  and  west,  was  the  dark,  fir- 
topped  line  of  the  canyon.  A  royal  road  to  the  plain 
the  creek  had  made  for  itself  through  the  very  heart  of 
the  range,  in  spite  of  the  mountains  having  locked  and 
interlaced  themselves  together.  And  following  the 
creek's  royal  road  below  was  a  royal  road  through  the 
air,  down  whose  radiant  vista  we  could  look.  Framed 
between  two  stone  walls,  which  slope  sharp  to  right  and 
sharp  to  left,  sharp  as  a  pyramid's  side,  there  lay  the 
plains,  shining,  sunny,  near,  and  yet  looking  infinitely 
remote. 

By  a  curious  freak  of  the  apparent  perspective,  these 
sharp,  pyramidal  Hues  framing  this  picture  seemed  to 
come  toward  us  and  vanish  in  an  impossible  "point  of 
sight "  midway  between  us  and  the  horizon.  The  effect 
of  this  was  to  make  the  triangular  spaces  of  plain  look, 
when  we  bent  our  heads  low  to  one  side,  like  gigantic 
triangular  banners  of  green  and  gold,  flung  up  the  can- 
yon, and  lying  across  from  wall  to  wall  like  canopies. 
Then  when  we  lifted  our  heads  they  were  again  radiant 


CHEYENNE  CANYON  241 

distances  of    plain,   hundreds    of  feet   below  us,   and 
seemingly  days'  journey  away. 

Creeping  close  to  the  edge  of  the  rocky  precipice,  we 
looked  over  at  the  falls,  —  three,  four,  five.  The  three 
we  had  seen  merged  into  one,  and  above  that  four 
others,  simply  narrow  lines  of  white  foam  as  we  looked 
down  on  them  from  this  great  height,  —  lines  of  white 
foam  running  swiftly  down  a  great  stone  sluiceway, 
hollowed  into  basins,  narrowed  into  flumes,  widened 
into  broad  shelves.  On  one  of  these  shelves  stood 
four  men. 

"  They  don't  look  bigger'n  a  minute  !  "  exclaimed  a 
man  who  was  lying  on  his  breast  just  beyond  us  and 
looking  over  the  edge.  He  was  one  of  the  Methodist 
brethren  who  had  followed  us  in  the  morning  singing 
songs.  All  day  they  had  been  following  the  creek  and 
climbing  in  the  woods.  They  wore  their  work-day 
clothes,  grimed,  stained.  Evidently  it  was  by  some 
very  hard  and  repulsive  toil  that  they  earned  bread  ; 
but  to-day  their  faces  shone  with  delight,  and  again  the 
very  canyon  itself  became  glorified  in  my  sight  by 
reason  of  unconscious  human  witness  to  its  good.     . 

From  this  summit  we  could  also  look  westward.  As 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach  here  also  were  ridges  and 
peaks  and  canyons  and  lines  of  dark  pines  and  firs. 
We  bore  away  one  trophy  with  us,  —  the  top,  the  very 
top,  of  a  high  balsam  fir.  How  this  victory  was  won  is 
the  conqueror's  secret  still;  but  the  trophy  hangs  on 
my  wall  and  is  as  regal  in  captivity  as  in  freedom. 
Seventy-three  purple-blue  cones  are  on  its  boughs,  — 
seventy-three,  blue  as  ripe  grapes  at  their  bluest  in  the 
sun  and  purple  as  grapes  at  their  darkest  in  shadow. 
Seventy-three  !     Cones  of  Eshcol  I  call  them. 

Going  down  the  canyon  in  the  late  afternoon,  wc 
found  new  pictures  at  every  turn,  a  different  beauty  ir 
every  spot.  The  brook  was  still  amber  and  brovvr 
and  white ;  but  it  was  in  shadow  now,  no  longer  shininj 
and  transparent.  The  dancing  golden  light  which  ha*, 
lighted  its  every  nook  and  depth  in  the  morning  hi- 
16 


242  BITS  OF    TRAVEL  AT  HOMji. 

gone,  and  now  lay  serene,  radiant,  hio^h  up  on  the  walls 
of  the  canyon.  These  great  spans  of  vivid  yellow  light 
on  the  rocks  shone  marvellously  through  and  between 
the  pines.  At  every  step  we  took  they  moved,  rising 
higher,  higher,  falling  to  right  or  left,  and  sometimes 
going  out  of  a  sudden,  as  the  blaze  of  a  fire  goes  out  in 
a  wind.  • 

The  canyon  was  incomparably  more  beautiful  in  this 
light  and  shadow  than  it  had  been  when  the  sharp 
morning  light  revealed  and  defined  every  thing ;  "  as 
much  more  beautiful,"  said  one,  thoughtfully,  "as  life 
is  when  our  eyes  are  fixed  on  radiant  heights  of  purpose 
and  action  and  the  little  things  of  the  moment  lie  in 
shadow." 

Just  outside  the  mouth  of  the  canyon  we  sat  down 
and  waited  for  the  twihght.  No  sun  was  in  sight ;  but 
the  plains  were  sunny  as  at  noon,  and  the  higher  peaks 
each  side  the  canyon  were  golden  red.  Slowly  the 
light  left  peak  after  peak,  until  only  one  narrow  sunbeam 
bar  was  left  along  the  upper  edge  of  the  southern  sum- 
mit. This  bright  bar  stretched  behind  a  line  of  tall 
firs,  and  made  them  gleam  out  for  a  moment  like  figures 
in  shming  armor.  Then  they  grew  misty  and  dark  and 
melted  into  the  mountain's  dim  purple  outline.  The 
birds'  evening  songs  ceased,  the  wind  died  slowly  away 
and  the  beautiful  Sunday  came  to  an  end. 


A    COLORADO    WEEK.  243 


A   COLORADO   WEEK. 

ONLY  from  Saturday  to  Saturday,  and  I  suppose 
the  days  could  not  have  been  more  than  twenty- 
four  hours  long;  but  what  a  week  it  was  !  Ten  hours  a 
day  out  under  a  Colorado  sky ;  ten  hours  a  day  of  Cplo- 
rado  mountain  air;  ten  hours  a  day  of  ever-changing 
delight ;  beauty  deepening  to  grandeur,  grandeur  soften- 
ing to  beauty,  and  beauty  and  grandeur  together  blend- 
ing in  pictures  which  no  pencil,  no  pen  can  render,  — 
pictures  born  only  to  be  stamped  upon  hearts,  never  to 
be  transferred  to  canvas  or  to  page.  I  said  that  the 
days  could  not  have  been  more  than  twenty-four  hours 
long.  I  spoke  hastily,  and  am  not  at  all  sure  of  any 
thing  of  the  kind.  There  is  a  comic  story  of  a  traveller 
in  Colorado  who,  having  been  repeatedly  misled  and 
mystified  by  the  marvellous  discrepancies  between  real 
and  apparent  distances  in  the  rarefied  air,  was  found 
one  day  taking  off  his  shoes  and  stockings  to  wade 
through  a  little  brook,  not  a  foot  wide. 

"  Why,  man,  what  are  you  about  ?  Why  don't  you 
step  over  ?  "  exclaimed  everybody. 

He  shook  his  head  and  continued  his  preparations  for 
wading. 

"  No  !  no  !  you  can't  fool  me,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I 
shan't  be  surprised  if  it  turns  out  to  be  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  across  this  brook." 

One  comes  to  have  much  the  same  feeling  about  out- 
door days  in  Colorado.  Enjoyment  can  be  rarefied, 
like  air,  so  that  its  measures  of  time  grow  meaningless 
and  seem  false,  as  do  the  measures  of  distance  in  the 
upper  air.     I  am  not  in  the  least  sure,  therefore,  that 


244  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

these  days  of  which  I  write  were  only  twenty-four  hours 
long.  I  do  know,  however,  that  it  was  on  a  Saturday 
we  set  out,  and  on  the  next  Saturday  we  came  home, 
and  that  the  week  might  be  called  the  Holy  Week  of 
our  summer. 

We  set  out  at  noon  from  Colorado  Springs.  Thirty- 
five  miles,  chiefly  up-hill  miles,  were  to  be  driven  before 
night.  The  seven  hours  would  be  none  too  long.  As 
we  drove  through  the  busy  streets  of  the  little  town, 
hearty  "good-byes"  and  "good-times  to  you"  came 
from  friend  after  friend,  on  the  sidewalk  or  in  the  door- 
ways. Not  the  least  among  the  charms  of  the  simple 
life  in  this  far  new  West  is  the  out-spoken  interest  and 
sympathy  between  neighbors.  That  each  man  know 
what  each  other  man  does  or  is  going  to  do  becomes  an 
offence  or  a  pleasure  according  to  the  measures  of  good 
will  involved  in  the  curiosity  and  familiarity.  In  older 
communities  people  have  crystallized  into  a  strong  indif- 
ference to  each  other's  affairs,  which,  if  it  were  analyzed, 
would  be  found  to  be  nine  parts  selfishness.  In  the 
primitive  conditions  of  young  colonies  this  is  impossible. 
Helpfulness  and  sympathy  are  born  of  the  hard-press- 
ing common  needs  and  the  closely-linked  common  life. 
The  hearty,  confiding,  questioning,  garrulous  speech  of 
the  Western  American  really  has  its  source  in  a  deep 
substratum  of  this  kindly  sympathy.  It  sounds  odd 
and  unpleasant  enough,  no  doubt,  to  Eastern  ears  and 
tried  by  the  Eastern  standards  of  good  manners  ;  but, 
reflecting  on  it,  one  comes  to  do  it  a  tardy  justice  and 
meet  it  on  its  own  ground  fairly  and  with  honest  liking. 
All  this  I  thought  as,  driving  out  of  Colorado  Springs 
that  Saturday  noon,  we  passed  many  persons  who,  al- 
though they  knew  only  one  of  our  party,  were  evidently 
wel  aware  that  we  were  setting  out  for  the  mountains, 
waved  their  hands  and  smiled  and  called  out :  "  Good- 
bye, good-bye.  A  good  trip  to  you."  Who  shall  say 
that  the  influence  of  such  cheery  benedictions  from 
friendly  hearts  does  not  last  far  beyond  the  moment  in 
which  they  are  spoken  ;  does  not  enter  into  one's  good 


A    COLORADO    WEEK,  245 

luck,  by  some  moral  chemistry  subtler  than  any  fof 
Tvhich  the  material  science  can  find  analysis  or  formula  ? 
The  world  would  be  none  the  worse  for  believing  this, 
at  any  rate,  and  we  should  all  be  friendlier  and  readier 
and  freer  in  greetings. 

Thirty-five  miles  westward  and  up-hill  we  drove  that 
afternoon,  through  the  lovely  nestled  nook  of  Manitou 
and  up  the  grand  Ute  Pass.  The  oftener  one  goes 
through  this  pass,  the  grander  it  seems.  There  are  in 
it  no  mere  semblances,  no  delusions  of  atmospheric 
effect.  It  is  as  severely,  sternly  real  as  Gibraltar.  Sun- 
light cannot  soften  it  nor  storms  make  it  more  frowning. 
High,  rocky,  inaccessible,  its  walls  tower  and  wind  and 
seem  at  every  turn  to  close  rather  than  to  open  the  path 
through  which  the  merry  little  stream  comes  leaping, 
foaming  down.  The  rocks  on  either  side  are  scarred 
and  grooved  and  seamed  and  wrought,  as  if  the  centu- 
ries had  rent  asunder  some  giant  fortress,  but  found 
slender  triumph  in  its  fall,  —  two  fortresses  being  set 
now  to  guard  the  spot  where  before  there  had  been  but 
one.  The  contrast  is  sharp  and  weird  between  the 
sparkling  amber  and  white  brook,  paved  with  shining 
pebbles  and  shaded  by  tangled  growths  of  willows  and 
clematis  and  tasselled  festoons  of  wild  hops,  and  the 
bare  red  and  gray  rock  walls,  rising  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  feet,  unrelieved  except  by  straight,  stern,  dark, 
unyielding  firs,  —  so  sharp,  so  weird  a  contrast  that  one 
unconsciously  invests  both  the  brook  and  the  rock  walls 
above  with  a  living  personality  and  antagonism,  and 
longs  that  the  brook  should  escape.  For  a  short  dis- 
tance the  road  is  narrow  and  perilous  —  on  strips  of 
ledges  between  two  precipices,  or  on  stony  rims  of  the 
crowded  brook,  which  it  crosses  and  recrosses  twenty- 
four  times  in  less  than  three  miles.  Then  the  Pass 
widens,  the  rocky  walls  sink  gradually,  round  and  ex- 
pand into  lovely  hills  —  hill  after  hill,  bearing  more  and 
more  off  to  the  right  and  more  and  more  off  to  the  left 
—  until  there  is  room  for  bits  of  meadow  along  the 
brook  and  for  groves  and  grassy  intervals  where  the 


246  BITS  OF    TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

hills  join ;  room  and  at  the  same  time  shelter,  for  the 
hills  are  still  high.  And  that  their  slopes  are  sunny 
and  warm  in  the  early  spring  we  find  record  written  in 
clumps  of  the  waving  seed-vessels  of  the  beautiful  blue 
wind-flower  of  Colorado,  the  Anemone  patens.  In 
April,  if  we  had  beeii  here,  we  should  have  seen  these 
slopes  blue  with  the  lovely  cup-blossoms.  Except  in 
color,  the  seed-vessels  are  no  less  beautiful.  Fancy  a 
dandelion  seed-globe  with  each  one  of  its  downy  spokes 
expanded  into  a  hairy  plume  two  inches  or  two  and  a 
half  in  length,  the  soft  gray  hairs  set  thick  on  both  sides 
the  tiny  centre  thread,  regular  as  on  an  ostrich  feather 
and  fine  as  the  down  on  a  butterfly's  wing.  I  have  one 
before  me  as  I  write.  It  was  over-ripe  when  I  gathered 
it.  The  plumes  had  been  blown  and  twisted  by  the 
wind,  till  no  two  are  alike  in  their  curve  or  direction. 
Yet  it  is  still  a  globe  ;  a  dainty  dishevelled  little  curly- 
head  of  a  thing,  by  whose  side  the  finest  dandehon 
"  blow  "  would  look  stupid  and  set  and  priggish.  Out 
of  curiosity  —  not  idle,  but  reverent — I  set  myself  to 
counting  the  plumes.  They  were  tangled,  so  that  it  was 
not  easy.  I  counted  twelve  springing  from  a  pin's- 
point  centre.  There  must  be  a  hundred  or  more  in  all. 
But  I  left  off  counting,  for  it  seemed  like  a  cruel  pulling 
of  a  baby's  hair. 

It  was  nightfall  when  we  reached  the  ranch  at  which 
we  were  to  sleep.  We  had  climbed  several  divides,  ris- 
ing, falling,  rising,  falling,  all  in  the  depths  of  pine  for- 
ests, all  steadily  mounting  westward,  toward  the  great 
grand  central  range  ;  and  we  came  out  at  sunset  on  a 
ridge  from  which  we  could  look  down  into  a  meadow. 
The  ridge  sloped  down  to  the  meadow  through  a  gate- 
way made  by  two  huge  masses  of  rocks.  All  alone  in 
the  smooth  grassy  forest,  they  loomed  up  in  the  dim 
light,  stately  and  straight  as  colossal  monoliths,  though 
they  were  in  reality  composed  of  rounded  bowlders 
piled  one  above  another.  Because  they  are  two  and 
alone  and  set  over  against  each  other,  men  have  called 
them  The  Twins.     All  over  the  world,  even  among  the 


A    COLORADO    WEEK.  247 

most  uncultured  people,  we  find  this  unconscious  in- 
vestiture of  Niture  with  personality,  so  instinctive  a 
tendency  have  sensitive  hearts  toward  a  noble  and 
tender  pantheism. 

As  we  paused  on  this  ridge,  the  western  sky  was  filled 
with  red  sunset  clouds  ;  the  western  horizon  was  one 
long  line  of  dark  blue  mountain  peaks,  seeming  to  up- 
hold the  red  canopy  of  clouds.  Only  at  the  point  of  the 
sun's  sinking  was  there  a  golden  tint.  There  two  blue 
peaks  stood  sharply  outlined  against  a  vivid  yellow  sky  ; 
one  fine  line  of  gold,  like  an  arch,  spanned  the  interval 
and  linked  the  peaks  together.  The  magic  bridge  lasted 
but  a  second  ;  before  we  had  fully  caught  the  beautiful 
sight,  arch  and  yellow  sea  and  blue  peaks  together  were 
all  swimming  in  rosy  clouds. 

The  ranch  was  a  cluster  of  log  cabins.  When  the 
Colorado  ranchman  prospers,  his  log  cabins  multiply  and 
grow  out  from  and  on  to  one  another,  very  much  as  bar- 
nacles spread  and  congregate  on  a  rock.  At  foot  of  a 
hill  and  spreading  up  on  its  side,  such  a  log-cabin 
clump  is  a  wonderfully  picturesque  sight.  Theirregu- 
lar  white  plaster  lines  in  all  the  crevices  between  the 
brown  logs  ;  the  yellow  hewn  ends  interlocked  at  the 
corners  ;  the  low  doors,  square  windows,  and  perhaps 
flat  roof,  with  grass  waving  on  it,  —  altogether  the  pic- 
ture is  not  unpleasing,  and  is  beautiful  compared  with 
that  of  the  average  small  frame  house,  —  high,  straight, 
sharp-angled,  narrow-roofed,  abominable.  On  entermg, 
you  will  probably  find  the  walls  and  ceiling  papered 
with  old  newspapers.  The  ultimate  intent  of  illustrated 
weeklies  flashes  instantly  clear  on  one's  comprehension. 
They  may  be  forgiven  for  existing.  To  the  dwellers  in 
log  cabins  they  are  priceless.  I  have  seen  in  rich  men's 
houses  far  uglier  wall-papers  than  they  make,  and  there 
is  endless  entertainment  in  lying  in  bed  of  a  morning 
and  reading  up  and  down  and  across  your  bedroom 
walls  that  sort  of  verse  which  is  printed  in  the  "  Blades  " 
and  "  Flags  "  and  "  Spirits  "  and  "  Times  "  of  oul 
Union. 


248  BITS   OF    TRAVEL   AT  I/O  ME. 

When  we  first  looked  to  the  west  the  next  morning 
the  two  peaks  which  had  been  blue  the  night  before  and 
circled  by  the  fine  line  of  gold  were  deep  gray  on  a  faint 
pink  sky.  Our  road  lay  directly  toward  them.  "  All 
day  we  shall  see,"  we  said,  "  the  mystic  gold  arch  span- 
ning the  space  between  them,  as  we  saw  it  in  yester- 
day's sunset."  But  we  did  not.  Sufficient  unto  the 
day  is  the  beauty  thereof  in  Colorado.  One  does  not 
remember  nor  anticipate  the  beauties  of  yesterday  or  to- 
morrow. The  gold  arch  was  forgotten  before  we  had 
driven  half  an  hour  through  the  meadows  of  flowers. 
Great  patches  of  brilHant  fire-weed  on  all  sides.  On 
the  road  edges,  rims  of  a  fine  feathery  white  flower,  new 
to  us  all ;  dainty  wild  flax,  its  blue  disks  waving  and 
nodding ;  clumps  of  scarlet  "  painter's-brush  "  gleam- 
ing out  like  red  torches  in  the  grass ;  tall  spikes  of 
white  and  pink  and  scarlet  gilia  ;  and  everywhere,  mak- 
ing almost  a  latticed  setting  for  the  rest,  mats  and 
spikes  and  bushes  of  yellow  blossoms.  Six  different 
kinds  of  yellow  flowers  we  counted  ;  but,  shame  to  us, 
we  knew  the  names  of  no  one  of  them. 

On  a  knoll  in  the  meadows,  within  stone's  throw  of 
the  sluggish  Platte  River,  yet  well  sheltered  by  wooded 
hills  on  two  sides,  stood  a  small  frame  house,  —  the 
house  of  a  famous  old  hunter.  Deer-skins  and  fox- 
skins  were  drying  on  the  fences  ;  huge  elk-horns  leaned 
against  the  sides  of  the  house.  As  we  drove  slowly 
by,  the  old  man  came  out.  His  hair  was  white  and  his 
face  thickly  wrinkled  ;  but  his  eye  was  bright,  clear, 
and  twinkling  with  gladness  and  energy,  like  the  glad-| 
ness  and  energy  of  youth.  ^ 

"  Never  go  out  but  what  I  bring  home  something,  sir, 
—  an  antelope,  if  nothing  more,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  a 
question  as  to  the  hunting  in  the  neigborhood.  Summer 
and  winter  the  old  man  ranges  the  hills  and  his  name 
is  well  known  in  the  markets  of  Denver  and  Colorado 
Springs. 

Leaving  the  Platte  meadows,  we  began  again  to  climb 
hills  to  the  west.     Divide  after  divide,  like  those  we  had 


A    COLORADO    WEEK.  249 

climbed  and  crossed  the  day  before,  we  climbed  now, 
Still  the  Great  Range  stood  apparently  as  far  off  as  ever, 
From  the  tops  of  all  the  ridges  we  looked  off  to  it,  and, 
looking  backward,  saw  Pike's  Peak  making  as  high  and 
majestic  a  wall  in  the  east.  The  hills  were  so  alike,  the 
distance  so  apparently  undiminished  that  we  began  to 
feel  as  if  we  were  in  an  enchantment,  —  Hving  over  a 
"Story  without  an  End,"  in  which  we  should  wander 
for  ever  in  a  succession  of  pine-covered  ridges  and  val- 
leys, lured  on  by  an  endlessly  retreating  wall  of  snow- 
topped  mountains  before  us.  But  an  end  came  ;  that 
is,  an  end  to  the  pine-covered  ridges.  It  was  an  end 
which  was  a  beginning,  however.  Shall  we  ever  forget 
the  moment  when,  having  climbed  the  highest  of  the 
pine-covered  ridges,  we  found  ourselves  on  a  true  sum- 
mit at  last,  on  the  summit  of  the  eastern  wall  of  the 
great  South  Park. 

The  South  Park  is  sixty  miles  long  and  forty  wide,  a 
majestic,  mountain-walled  valley  ;  a  valley  eight  or  nine 
thousand  feet  high.  Its  extreme  western  wall  is  the 
great  central  range  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  but  so 
many  lesser  ranges  are  massed  and  built  up  against  this 
that  the  eftect  to  the  eye  is  as  if  there  lay  only  moun- 
tains to  the  very  outermost  edge  of  the  world.  To  the 
north  and  to  the  south  it  is  the  same.  We  looked  down 
on  this  valley  from  near  the  centre  of  the  eastern  ridges. 
The  view  had  the  vastness  of  a  view  from  a  high  moun- 
tain peak,  mingled  with  the  beauty  of  one  from  near  hills. 
A  great  silence,  hke  the  great  silence  of  the  place,  fell 
upon  us.  The  scene  seemed  almost  unreal.  From  our 
very  feet  to  the  distant  western  wall,  forty  miles  away, 
stretched  the  soft,  smooth,  olive-gray  surface  of  the 
valley,  with  belts  and  bars  and  flickering  spaces  of  dark 
shadow  of  yellow  sunlight  playing  over  it.  Hare  and 
there  rose  hills, — some  wooded,  some  bare  and  of  the 
same  soft  olive-gray  of  the  valley.  Some  were  almost 
high  enough  to  be  called  mountains  ;  some  were  low 
and  fluted  in  smooth  water- worn  grooves.  These  were 
islands  when  South   Park  was   a   lake.     They   looked 


250  BITS   OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME 

hardly  less  like  islands  now,  and  the  olive-gray  plain 
when  it  was  a  placid  sea  could  not  have  had  a  smoother 
tint  or  a  tenderer  light  on  its  shimmering  surface.  The 
dome  of  the  sky  looked  strangely  vast  and  high.  It 
was  filled  with  fleecy,  shifting  clouds  and  its  blue  was 
unfathomably  deep.  There  seemed  no  defined  horizon  to 
west  or  south  or  north  ;  only  a  great  outlying  continent 
of  mountain  peaks,  bounding,  upholding,  containing  the 
valley,  and  rounding,  upholding,  and  piercing  the  dome 
above  it.  There  was  no  sound,  no  sight,  no  trace  of 
human  life.  The  silence,  the  sense  of  space  in  these 
Rocky  Mountains  solitudes  cannot  be  expressed  :  neither 
can  the  peculiar  atmospheric  beauty  be  described.  It 
is  the  result  partly  of  the  grand  distances,  partly  of  the 
rarefied  air.  The  shapes  are  the  shapes  of  the  north, 
but  the  air  is  like  the  air  of  the  tropics,  —  shimmering, 
kindling.  No  pictures  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  which 
I  have  seen  have  caught  it  in  the  least.  There  is  not 
a  cold  tint  here.  No  dome  of  Constantinople  or  Venice, 
no  pyramid  of  Egypt,  ever  glowed  and  swam  in  warmer 
light  and  of  warmer  hue  than  do  these  colossal  moun- 
tains. Some  mysterious  secret  of  summer  underlies 
and  outshines  their  perpetual  snows  Perhaps  it  is 
only  the  ineffable  secret  of  distance.  Nowhere  else  in 
the  world  are  there  mountains  fourteen  and  fifteen  thous- 
and feet  high  which  have  all  the  room  they  need,  — 
great  circles  and  semicircles  of  plains  at  their  feet  and 
slopes  a  half  continent  long  ! 

As  we  drove  down  into  the  valley,  the  horizon  peaks 
slowly  sank  ;  with  each  mile  they  changed  place,  les- 
sened, disappeared,  until  only  the  loftiest  ones  remained 
in  sight.  Winding  among  the  hills,  which  had  looked 
from  the  summit  of  the  valley  like  isolated  islands,  we 
found  them  sometimes  hnked  together  by  long  divides, 
which  we  climbed  and  crossed,  as  we  had  those  of  the 
valley  walls.  With  each  of  these  lifts  came  a  fresh  view 
of  the  myriad  mountains  around  us.  Then  we  sank 
again  to  the  lower  level,  and  the  plain  seemed  again  to 
stretch    endlessly   before  and   behind   and   around   us 


A    COLORADO    WEEK.  251 

Now  and  then  we  came  to  small  creeks,  meadows,  and 
a  herdsman's  ranch;    but  these  were   miles   and   miles 
apart,    and  hardly  broke  in   on  the  sense  of  soHtude. 
Early  in  the  afternoon  storms  began  to  grither  in  the 
horizon.     In  straight  columns  the  black  clouds  massed 
and  journeyed  ;  sometimes  so  swiftly  that  the  eye  had 
to  move  swiftly  to  follow  them,  and  the  spaces  of  sun- 
light and  shadow  on  the  sky  seemed  wheeling  in  circles  ; 
sometimes  spreading  slowly  and  blotting  out  a  third  of 
the  horizon  in  gray  mist.     All  the  time  we  were  in  broad 
hot  sun,  looking  out  from  our  light  into  their  darkness. 
We  were  nearing  the  western  wall.     As  we  came  closer, 
we  saw  that  there  were  myriads  of  lovely  parks  making 
up  among  the  wooded  foot-hills.     These  were  the  inlets 
of  the  old  lake  days  ;  and  of  their  rich  soil  had  been 
born   exquisite   groves  of   aspen,   lying  now  like  solid 
mounds  of  green  moss  on  the  hill-sides.    Toward  sunset 
the  storm-columns  thickened,  blended,  and  swept  down 
on  all  sides.     Mountain  after    mountain  and  near  hill 
after  near  hill  were  veiled  in  mist,  —  first  white,  then, 
gray,  then  dark  blue-black.     At  last  the  last  blue  sky, 
the  last  clear  spot  surrendered.     We  were  hemmed  in 
completely  in  a  great   globe    of  rain.     Drenched    and 
dripping,  but,  for  all  that,  glad  of  the  rain  —  it  had  been 
such  a  masterly  storm  to  see  —  we  dashed  on,  turning 
northward  and  skirting  the  western  hills,  to  the  town  of 
Fair  Play.     Fair  Play  is  a  mining  town,  one  of  the  oldest 
in  Colorado.     It  ought  to  be  a  beautiful  village,  lying  as 
it  does  on  a  well-wooded  slope  at  foot  of  grand  mountains 
and  on  the  Platte  River.     It  is  not.     It  is  ill  arranged, 
ill  built,  ill  kept,  dreary.     Why  cannot  a  mining  town 
be  clean,    well-ordered,  and  homelike  ?     I   have  never 
seen  one  such  in   Colorado   or   in  California.     Surely, 
it   would  seem  that  men   getting  gold  first   hand  from 
Nature  might  have  more  heart  and  take  more  time  to 
make  home  pleasant  and  healthful  than  men  who  earn 
their  money  by  the  ordinary  slow  methods. 

To  enter  Fair  Play  from  the  south,  you  go  down  into 
and  up  out  of  the  Platte  River.     The  Platte  River  just 


252  BITS  GF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME 

there  is  an  odd  place.  It  consists  of,  first,  a  small 
creek  of  water,  then  a  sand-bar,  then  a  pebble  tract, 
then  an  iron  pipe  for  mining  purposes,  then  another 
pebble  tract,  then  a  wooden  sluice-way  for  mining  pur- 
poses, then  a  sand-bar  with  low  aspen  trees  on  it,  then 
a  second  small  stream  of  water,  and  lastly  a  pebble 
tract,  —  each  side  of  these  a  frightful  precipice.  To  go 
down  the  first  precipice,  across  the  creeks,  sand-bars, 
pebble  tracts,  pipes,  and  sluiceways,  and  up  the  second 
precipice  requires,  for  strangers  new  to  the  ways  and 
blinded  by  gales  of  rain,  some  nerve.  This  was  the 
way  we  entered  Fair  Play.     We  shall  remember  it. 

At  sunset  the  rain  stopped;  the  clouds  lifted  and 
showed  us  the  grand  summit  of  Mount  Lincoln,  which 
we  had  come  to  ascend. 

"  Up  to  the  top  of  that  mountain  in  a  carriage  !  "  we 
exclaimed.     "  It  is  impossible." 

"  It  is  not  even  difficult,"  was  the  reply.  "  The  road 
is  as  good  a  road  as  }'0u  have  been  over  to-day.  The 
steepness  is  the  only  trouble.  It  takes  five  hours  to  go 
from  here,  and  it  is  only  twelve  miles  to  the  summit." 

We  were  incredulous.  Mount  Lincoln  was  nearly 
fifteen  thousand  feet  high.  It  rose  bare,  precipitously, 
and  seemed  to  pierce  the  sky.  A  bank  of  snow  lay 
along  its  upper  line. 

"  There's  a  mine  just  below  that  snowbank,"  continued 
the  astonishing  tale.  "  The  miners  hve  in  a  cabin  there 
all  the  year  round  and  there  are  loads  of  ore  drawn 
down  every  day  over  this  road  you  are  going  on." 

The  sides  of  the  mountain  looked  more  and  more 
precipitous  each  moment  that  we  gazed  upon  them. 
The  story  must  be  true,  but  it  was  incredible.  The 
road  must  be  real,  but  it  was  terrible  to  think  of.  We 
dreaded  the  morning.  And  it  was  the  morning  of  a  day 
which  we  would  gladly  live  over  again.  So  false  are 
fears  in  this  life. 

We  set  out  early, — down  into  the  Platte  meadows; 
up  a  rift  between  mountains,  called  a  valley  ;  along  the 
edges  of  pine  forests;  past  dismal  little  mining  settle- 


A    COLORADO    WEE  A'.  253 

merits,  where  great  piles  of  sulphur  smoked  lurid  and 
yellow,  —  seven  miles  of  this,  with  the  bare,  brown,  ter- 
rible mountains  looming  up  straight  and  near  before  us, 
and  we  came  to  the  base  of  Mount  Lincoln.  Seven 
miles  we  had  come  in  a  little  more  than  an  hour.  It 
was  to  take  us  four  hours  to  chmb  the  remaining  five 
miles.  No  wonder,  at  our  first  turn  into  the  mountain 
road,  we  looked  at  each  other  aghast.  It  seemed  nearly 
perpendicular.  It  was  full  of  stones,  of  bowlders  ;  it 
looked  like  the  washed-out  bed  of  a  fierce  mountain 
'  torrent.  The  pine  forest  on  either  hand  was  grand  and 
stately.  We  could  see  no  longer  the  bare  summit  above 
us ;  but,  looking  back,  we  saw  minute  by  minute,  by  the 
receding  valley  and  the  opening  up  of  new  views  of  hills 
and  ravines  and  parks  in  all  directions,  how  fast  we 
were  mounting.  On  all  sides  of  us  blazed  enchanting 
color,  —  solid  spaces  of  fire-weed,  brilliant  pink,  purple 
and  yellow  and  white  asters,  and  blue  harebells  by  tens 
of  thousands  ;  green  grassy  nooks  under  the  pine  trees 
were  filled  or  bordered  or  dotted  with  the  gay  blossoms. 
The  contrast  between  these  and  the  devastated  gully 
in  which  we  were  climbing  seemed  inexpHcable.  The 
horses'  sides  heaved  like  billov/s  and  their  breathing 
was  loud.  Every  two  minutes  they  must  stop  to  recover 
breath.  Only  the  strongest  brakes  could  hold  the  car- 
riage in  its  place.  "  This  is  nothing,"  said  Jack,  the 
driver.  "  I  don't  mind  any  thing  about  it  below  timber 
line." 

Neither  did  we  after  we  had  been  above  timber  line. 
That  was  some  three  thousand  feet  below  the  summit. 
Just  there  stood  a  group  of  cabins  —  the  cabins  and 
stables  of  the  muleteers  who  work  for  the  mines. 

"  You'll  never  get  up  with  them  hosses,"  called  out 
one  of  the  mule-drivers,  as  we  passed. 

Jack  received  the  taunt  in  contemptuous  silence. 

"  I  hain't  never  been  by  here  yet  without  some  o' 
them  fellers  tellin'  me  I  couldn't  get  up,"  said  he. 
''They  think  there  can't  nothin'  go  up  this  mountain 
except  a  mule  ' 


254         J^iTS  OF  tkavEjl.  at  home. 

"Well,  when  we  come  down  all  safe  you  can  ask 
them  which  knew  best,"  said  I. 

"  No,  I  don't  never  say  nothin'  to  'em,"  replied  Jack ; 
*'  for  as  like  as  not  some  day  I  shan't  get  up,  and  then 
they'll  fling  it  up  at  me.  I'm  the  only  fellow  in  our 
stable  but  what  has  had  his  hosses  give  out  on  this 
road." 

'We  were  out,  fairly  out  on  the  bald,  bare,  blistering 
mountain,  —  on  Mount  Bross,  which  we  must  nearly  cross 
to  reach  Mount  Lincoln.  The  mountains,  instead  of  be- 
ing sheer  soHd  rock,  as  we  had  supposed,  looking  at  them 
from  below,  were  simply  piles,  giant  piles  of  fine-broken 
stone,  broken  into  sharp,  fine  fragments,  as  if  it  had 
been  crushed  in  a  rolling  mill,  —  not  a  single  smooth 
roadstone  among  them,  and  so  little  sand  or  gravel  or 
soil  of  any  kind  that  it  seemed  a  marvel  how  the  great 
mass  was  held  together;  why  strong  winds  did  not 
blow  it  gradually  away  in  showers  of  stones  ;  why  it 
was  not  perpetually  rolling  down ;  how  it  could  possibly 
be  tunnelled  or  driven  over. 

"  There's  the  road,"  said  Jack,  pointing  up  to  a  dim 
zigzag  line  of  a  little  lighter  color  than  the  rest  of  the 
mountain.  "  That's  the  worst  place,"  indicating  what 
looked  like  a  track  on  which  there  had  been  a  sHde  some 
day.  "  I  shan't  refuse  anybody  that  likes  to  get  out 
and  walk  there." 

It  was  indeed  fearful.  Nothing  but  the  grandeur  of 
the  off-look  into  space  could  have  held  our  terror  in 
check.  That  and  the  blue  of  the  blue-bells  all  around 
us  in  great  masses,  making  solid  color  as  a  cloverfield 
has.  There  they  stood,  the  dainty,  frail,  beloved  blue- 
bells, hugging  the  ground  for  safety ;  none  of  them 
more  than  three  or  four  inches  high,  but  clear,  shining, 
and  lovely  as  those  which  waved  on  the  shady  terraces 
below.  Blue-bells  twelve  thousand  feet  above  the  sea, 
and  they  were  not  alone.  There  were  dozens  of  other 
low  flowers,  which  we  knew  not,  — blue,  white,  laven«ier, 
and  pink,  —  all  keeping  close  to  the  ground,  like  mosses, 
but  all  perfect  of  form  and  tint.     These  comforted  us- 


A    COLORADO    WEEK.  255 

When  for  very  dizziness  we  could  not  look  up  or  off, 
we  looked  down  to  the  ground,  and  there  secure,  content 
little  faces  reassured  us. 

The  road  wound  and  doubled,  making  occasional 
vertical  thrusts  upward.  It  seemed  to  have  been  made 
by  pushing  down  the  loose  stones,  bracing  them  and 
packing  them  a  htde  tighter  ;  that  was  all.  Again  and 
again  we  saw  ahead  of  us  what  we  supposed  to  be  the 
road,  and  it  proved  to  be  only  an  accidental  depression 
or  projection  in  the  mountain  side.  The  horses  could 
go  only  about  twice  or  three  times  the  carriage  length 
at  a  time.  Then,  gasping  and  puffing,  they  stopped  and 
rested  five  or  six  minutes.  It  seemed  to  me  cruel  to 
compel  thern  to  draw  us.  I  jumped  out  and  announced 
my  intention  of  walking.  A  very  few  steps  showed  me 
that  it  was  out  of  my  power.  Each  step  that  I  took 
seemed  to  resound  in  my  head.  I  could  not  breathe. 
I  was  dizzy.  My  forehead  seemed  bursting  from  the 
pressure  of  the  surging  blood. 

''  Shade  of  Henry  Bergh  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Couldst 
thou  be  humane  at  thirteen  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  ? 
I  cannot."  And  at  the  end  of  the  first  rod  I  called  pite- 
ously  to  Jack  that  I  must  be  taken  into  the  carriage 
again.  Two-thirds  of  the  way  up  Mount  Bross  were 
several  small  cabins,  projecting  like  odd-shaped  rocks 
from  the  side  of  the  mountain.  Places  for  these  also 
had  apparently  been  scooped  out  among  the  fine  rolling 
stones.  This  was  the  "Dolly  Varden  "  Mine.  Some 
of  the  miners  stood  in  the  cabin-doors  as  we  passed.  I 
gazed  at  them  earnestly,  expecting  to  see  them  look  Hke 
sons  of  gnomes  of  the  upper  and  lower  air  ;  but  their 
faces  were  fresh,  healthful,  and  kindly.  A  little  further 
along  Jack  exclaimed  :  — 

"We're  riding  over  the  Moose  Mine  now.  There's 
tunnels  right  under  us  here  that  you  could  drive  a  four- 
hoss  team  through."  Looking  cautiously  over  the  edge 
of  the  precipice  to  the  right,  we  could  see  the  roofs  of 
the  cabins  many  feet  below  us,  and  in  a  few  moments 
we  passed  the  road  leading  down  to  them.     It  was  just 


256  BITS   OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

such  a  road  as  we  were  on,  and  we  could  still  see  noth- 
ing but  loose  stone  above,  below,  around.  Mysterious 
mountain  !  Apparently  a  gigantic  pile  of  tiny,  rolling 
bits  of  stone,  and  yet  mined  and  tunnelled  and  counter- 
tunnelled,  and  full  of  silver  from  top  to  bottom. 

The  road  wound  around  the  northern  face  of  Mount 
Bross  and  then  came  out  on  a  narrow  ridge  or  saddle  con- 
necting Mount  Bross  to  Mount  Lincoln.  This  was  per- 
haps the  grandest  point  of  all.  To  the  north  we  looked 
up  Moant  Lincoln,  a  thousand  feet  above  us  ;  to  the  east 
we  looked  off  and  down  to  the  river  level,  over  and  through 
and  between  myriads  of  sharp  peaks  and  unfathomable 
gorges,  and  beyond  these  off  to  a  horizon  of  mountains. 
To  the  west  also  we  looked  down  into  a  confusion  of 
peaks  and  ridges  wedged  between  canyons  ;  and  just 
below  us  lay  a  small  lake,  so  smooth,  so  dark  it  looked 
like  a  huge  steel  shield  flung  into  the  chasm. 

As  we  ascended  the  last  few  hundred  feet  of  Mount 
Lincoln  a  fierce  wind  blew  in  our  faces.  It  seemed  as  if 
to  such  a  wind  it  would  be  a  trifling  thing  to  whisk  our 
carriage  and  us  off  the  narrow  ledge  of  road.  Very  wel- 
come was  the  roaring  fire  in  the  cabin  of  the  "  Present 
Help  "  Mine  at  the  summit,  and  very  significant  seemed 
the  name  of  the  mine. 

Nothing  in  the  mining  country  is  odder  than  the 
names  of  the  mines.  They  are  as  indicative  of  parent- 
age as  are  the  names  of  m.en  and  women  ;  and,  over- 
hearing them  in  famihar  conversations,  one  is  often 
much  bewildered.  Once  on  a  hotel  piazza  I  overheard 
the  following  sentences  :  — 

"  He's  sold  out  i'  the  Moore  and  bought  into  the 
Moskeeter;  'n  he's  got  suthin'  in  Hiawatha,  too." 

"  Well,  I  think  Buckskin  Joe's  pretty  good,  don't  you  ?  " 
replied  the  listener. 

The  cabin  was,  like  those  of  the  Dolly  Varden  Mine, 
below,  built  against  the  side  of  the  mountain,  in  a  spot 
apparently  scooped  out  of  the  stones.  From  its  front 
was  a  transcendent  ofif-look  to  the  south  and  east.  Its 
door  was  perhaps  three  feet  from  the  edge  of  a  sheer 


4    COLORADO    WEEK.  257 

precipice.  Hundreds  and,  for  aught  I  know,  thousands 
of  feet  down  would  that  man  fall  who  made  a  misstep  ; 
and  yet  the  men  went  back  and  forth  swiftly,  and  jostled 
the  mules  carelessly  to  one  side  if  they  happened  to 
wander  in  there.  We,  however,  crept  slowly  around 
the  cabin  corner,  holding  by  the  logs,  and  did  not 
venture  to  look  off  until  we  were  fairly  in  the  doorway. 

The  cook  was  a  cheery  fellow,  with  a  fine  head  and 
laughing  brown  eyes.  He  was  kneading  bread.  His 
tin  pans  shone  like  a  dairymaid's.  The  cabin  was  by 
no  means  a  comfortless  place.  One  wide,  long  bench 
for  table ;  a  narrow  one  for  chairs  ;  tin  cups,  tin  pans, 
black  knives  and  forks,  —  we  borrowed  them  all.  The 
cook  made  delicious  coffee  for  us  and  we  took  our  lunch 
with  as  good  relish  as  if  we  had  been  born  miners.  The 
men's  beds  were  in  tiers  of  bunks  on  two  sides  of  the 
cabin,  much  wider  and  more  comfortable  than  stateroom 
berths  in  steamers.  In  each  berth  was  a  small  wooden 
box,  nailed  on  the  wall,  for  a  sort  of  cupboard  or  bureau 
drawer.  In  these  lay  the  Sunday  clothes,  white  shirts, 
and  so  forth,  neatly  folded.  There  were  newspapers 
lying  about,  and  when  I  asked  the  cook  if  he  liked  living 
there,  he  answered :  "  Oh,  yes  !  very  well.  We  have 
a  mail  once  a  week."  A  reply  which  at  once  revealed 
the  man  and  was  significant  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived. 

There  were  still  two  hundred  feet  of  Mount  Lincoln 
to  be  climbed.  The  little  cabin  had  seemed  to  be  but 
a  step  below  the  summit-line  ;  but  now  we  looked  up  to 
two  sharp  pyramids  of  stones  above  us.  Up  to  the  first 
point,  over  fine,  sharp  bits  of  stone,  which  slipped  and 
rolled  under  our  feet  at  every  step,  we  crawled  ;  up  to 
the  second,  over  great  bowlders,  piled  and  poised  and 
tipped  on  each  other,  we  scrambled  and  leaped,  and 
sunk  down  at  the  foot  of  the  flag-staff.  We  were  Hter- 
ally  on  the  apex  point  of  the  continent  !  Here,  on  the 
one  hand,  were  the  head-waters  of  the  Arkansas  River, 
going  south  ;  on  the  other,  the  head-waters  of  the  Platte, 
going  east ;  and  just  across  a  small  divide,  almost  within 


258  BITS  OF   TRAVET   AT  HOME. 

a  stone's  throw,  the  headwaters  of  the  Grande,  going 
west  to  the  Pacific.  Well  did  the  old  Spaniards  name 
>t)^is  central  range  "Sierra  Madre  "  —  "Mother  Moun- 
tains," It  is  said  that  the  view  from  this  peak  has  a 
radius  of  over  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles.  It  would  be 
easy  to  believe  it  greater.  Fancy  such  a  radius  as  this 
sweeping  slowly  around  a  horizon  circle  of  lofty  peaks, 
and  the  entire  space  from  the  outer  horizon  to  the  cen- 
tral summit  filled  with  great  mountain  ranges  and  their 
intervening  parks  and  valleys.  The  great  South  Park, 
a  day's  journey  wide,  was  a  hand's-breadth  now  of  soft 
olive-gray,  its  wooded  ridges  and  hills  making  dots  of 
dark  color  ;  yet  its  tint  and  its  outline  were  as  distinct 
as  when  seen  from  its  near  wall. 

As  we  looked  down  on  the  narrow  chains  and  into  the 
closer  chasms,  it  seemed  as  if  this  great  giant  pyramid 
on  which  we  stood  must  hold,  in  some  mysterious  way, 
in  its  secret  chambers,  the  threads  of  all  the  other  ranges, 
as  if  they  centred  in  it,  radiated  out  from  it,  circled 
around  it,  in  an  intricate  bond,  hke  that  by  which  the 
spider-web  is  spun  and  swung.  The  near  peaks  and 
ridges  were  bare,  stony,  sharp.  Their  chasms  looked 
unfathomable,  like  ghastly  seams  cloven  to  the  earth's 
very  centre.  Among  these,  to  the  north,  were  two  silent, 
black,  gleaming  lakes.  From  these  nearer  peaks  the 
eye  journeyed  downward,  with  a  sense  of  relief,  to 
wooded  ranges,  intervals  of  sunny  valley ;  and  then 
outward,  in  the  vast  circle,  to  mountains  with  snowy 
tops  ;  and  at  last  to  mountains  in  the  furthest  horizon, 
blue,  dim,  and  unreal,  —  mountains  of  which  one  could 
unquestioningly  believe  that  they  were  not  of  this  world, 
but  of  some  other, — parapets  of  some  far  planet,  on 
which  at  that  moment  beings  of  an  unknown  race  might 
be  standing  and  looking  off"  across  the  great  space  won- 
deringly  at  us. 

Who  knows  that  among  the  "  things  prepared  "  there 
may  not  be  this  :  that,  we  being  set  free  from  all  hin- 
drances of  space,  as  well  as  from  those  of  time,  there 
vill  be  recognition,  converse  from  planet  to  planet,  the 


A    COLORADO     WEEK.  259 

aniverse  round  as  quick  and  complete  as  there  id  now 
from  face  to  face  within  hand's  reach.  On  such  heights 
as  this  one  sees  clearly,  and  feels  a -million  times  more 
clearly  than  he  sees,  that  this  glorious  world  could  never 
have  been  fashioned  solely  for  the  uses  of  our  present 
helplessness.  Deeper  than  the  secret  stores  of  gold 
and  silver  and  gems  with  which  these  great  untouched 
mountains  are  filled,  there  lies  in  them  a  secret,  a  proph- 
ecy of  life  to  come,  into  which  they  shall  enter  and  of 
which  we  shall  be  triumphant  possessors. 

With  brakes  clinched,  wheels  tied,  and  teeth  set,  we 
grazed,  twisted,  shd  down  the  mountain  ;  none  too  soon, 
for  a  storm  was  gathering  in  the  west,  which  gave  us  a 
hard  race  down  the  valley  and  across  the  river  meadows. 
But  we  came  in  ahead  at  sunset,  and  were  warming  our 
hands  over  a  big  fire  in  the  Fair  Play  Hotel  when  it 
burst  in  avalanches  of  cold  rain. 

"This  is  snow  on  the  mountains,"  said  the  landlord. 
Sure  enough.  Next  morning  all  the  upper  peaks  were 
solid  white, — so  white  that  it  was  hard  to  see  where 
snow  left  off  and  clouds  began.  As  we  looked  back  and 
up  from  the  bed  of  the  Platte  at  the  majestic  shining 
pyramids  and  cones,  we  doubted  our  memories  of  the 
day  before.  As  well  tell  us  we  had  been  caught  up  into 
the  skies. 

We  were  a  very  glad  party  that  morning.  We  were 
setting  our  faces  toward  an  unanticipated  pleasure ; 
more  than  that,  toward  a  pleasure  we  had  longed  for  but 
had  unwillingly  abandoned  all  hope  of.  We  were  set- 
ting out  for  the  Twin  Lakes.  We  owed  this  to  Jack. 
Jack  was  a  reticent  fellow.  A  hasty  observer  might 
liave  thought  his  face  a  sullen  one ;  but  there  were  fine 
lines  around  the  corners  of  his  eyes  which  meant  good, 
and  a  smile  now  and  then  which  showed  a  sensitive 
nature.  He  had  led  a  wild  life.  He  had  been  a  stage- 
driver  in  Mexico  ;  had  spent  whole  winters  trapping  on 
the  shores  of  Itaska  Lake  :  had  fought  Indians  every- 
where ;  and  just  now  was  'ying  by  in  inglorious  quiet  in 
a  Fair  Play  livery  stable      Before  he  had  been  long  witb 


26o  BITS  OF   TEA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

us  on  the  mountain,  he  knew  what  we  liked.  The  first 
remark  which  betrayed  his  discriminating  observation 
was  called  out  by  our  enthusiastic  ejaculations  about  the 
flowers.  Without  turning  his  head  and  speaking  low, 
as  if  in  a  sohloquy,  he  said  :  "■  There's  great  differences 
in  folks  about  noticin'  things." 

Have  we  the  tutor  of  Sandford  and  Merton  for  a 
driver  ?  thought  I,  and  I  smothered  a  laugh  as  I  said  : 
"  Yes,  indeed,  Jack.     But  what  reminded  you  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  was  a-thinkin'  of  the  two  people  I  drove  up  here 
day  before  yesterday.  I  never  heard  'em  say  one  word 
from  first  to  last  about  any  thin'  they  see  ;  an'  they 
wanted  to  turn  right  round  an'  come  straight  down  's 
soon  's  they  got  up.  I  don't  know  what  such  folks  's 
them  takes  the  trouble  to  travel  round  for.  I  s'pose  it's 
just  for  the  name  on't,  —  to  say  they've  done  it." 

The  words  give  no  idea  of  the  drollery  and  contemptu- 
ousness  of  his  manner.  We  could  hardly  reply  for 
laughing. 

"  Oh  !  Jack,  didn't  they  even  notice  the  flowers  ?  "  we 
said. 

"  Don't  believe  they'd  have  said  there  was  a  flower  on 
the  road,"  replied  Jack.  "  All  they  see  was  the  stones 
and  the  steep  places.     The  man,  he  swore  at  'em." 

"  But  there  ain't  nothin'  that  you'll  see  to-day,"  he 
continued,  "which  is  's  handsome,  to  my  way  o'  thinkin', 
's  the  Twin  Lakes.     You're  goin'  there,  ain't  you  .?" 

"  No,  Jack,"  we  said.  "  We  can't  take  the  time  to  go 
there." 

Jack's  countenance  fell. 

"Can't  you? "he  said.  "I'd  like  first-rate  to  have 
you  see  them  lakes.  They're  the  nicest  things  in  this 
country." 

Again  and  again  in  the  course  of  the  day  he  alluded 
to  them.  It  evidently  went  sorely  against  him  that  we 
should  not  see  those  lakes. 

"You  like  flowers  so  much,"  he  said.     "You  hain't 
seen  any  flowers  yet  to  what  you'll  see  there,  an'  there 
ain't  no  kind  of  difficulty  in  gettin'  to  the  Twin  Lakes 
It's  a  plain  road  from  Fair  Play." 


A   COLORADO    WEEK.  261 

"  Yes,  Jack,"  we  said  ;  "  but  it  is  two  days'  journey, 
and  we  can't  spend  so  much  time." 

Jack  fairly  sprang  round  on  his  seat,  and,  facing  us, 
exclaimed  :  — 

"  Who's  been  a-telHn'  you  it  was  two  days'  journey  ? 
It's  only  thirty-five  miles  straight  across  the  range. 
You'll  do  it  easy  in  one  day." 

And  so,  all  by  reason  of  Jack's  having  noticed  the 
"differences  in  people  about  noticin'  things,"  we  set  off 
on  the  fourth  morning  of  our  Holy  Week  for  the  Twin 
Lakes. 

"Jack,"  said  I,  as  we  were  climbing  up  out  of  the 
Platte  River,  "  what  is  the  reason  you  like  the  Twin 
Lakes  so  much  ?  " 

An  awkward,  half-shamefaced  look  flickered  over 
Jack's  features,  as  if  I  had  asked  him  some  question 
about  his  sweetheart. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  hesitatingly.  "  I  reckon  it's 
because  it's  such  a  lonely-lookin'  kind  o'  place.  I  hain't 
been  there  but  once." 

There  was  a  strange  mixture  of  the  hermit  and  the 
adventurer  in  our  Jack.  We  liked  journeying  in  his 
company. 

We  were  out  once  more  in  the  great,  grand  South 
Park.  It  was  glorious  under  the  morning  light.  Its 
broad  stretches  shone  silver-gray,  and  its  myriad-moun- 
tained  wall  was  blue  in  the  south  and  in  the  east  and  in 
the  west  snow-topped.  We  drove  a  few  miles  south- 
ward, then  turned  sharply  to  the  west,  and  followed  a 
grassy  road  into  one  of  the  many  lovely  valleys  which 
we  had  seen  two  days  before,  making  up  like  inlets 
between  the  foot-hills  of  the  western  wall  of  the  Park. 
This  wall  we  were  to  cross.  Its  multiplying  and  tower- 
ing crests  looked  impassable  ;  but  we  had  learned  the 
marvel  of  the  secret  windings  of  mountain  passes,  and  a 
messenger  had  already  met  us,  —  a  messenger  white 
with  haste,  so  fast  had  he  come  down  and  out. 

By  the  same  road  v/e  would  go  up  and  in,  and  so 
across.     Almost  immediately  the  valley  narrowed.     The 


262  BITS  OF   TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

creek,  the  messenger,  became  a  foaming  brook  and  the 
road  clung  to  its  bank.  It  was  thick  set  with  willows, 
bush-maples,  and  alders.  Their  branches  brushed  'nto 
our  faces,  they  grew  so  close  ;  flowers  burst  into  our 
sight  like  magic  on  all  sides,  —  fireweed,  harebells, 
painter's-brush,  larkspur,  asters  of  all  colors  and 
superbly  full  and  large.  It  was  a  fairy  garden.  The 
grass  was  green,  —  real,  perfect  green  grass,  the  first, 
the  only  true  green  grass  I  have  ever  seen  in  Colorado. 
Except  for  the  towering  and  stony  walls  above  our 
heads  and  for  the  fiery  scarlet  or"  the  painter's-brush 
and  the  tall  spikes  of  larkspur,  1  could  have  fancied  my- 
self in  a  wild  thicketed  cave  in  Vermont.  The  green 
grass  ran  up  in  lovely  spaces  under  the  pines  and  firs  ; 
the  air  was  almost  overladen  with  fragrance  ;  white 
butterflies  wheeled  and  circled  above  us  and  then  flew 
on  ahead  ;  the  road  was  set,  literally  set,  thick  with 
borders  of  lavender,  gray,  purple,  white,  and  yellow 
asters.  Even  down  the  middle  of  the  road  they  grew,  — 
not  only  asters,  but  harebells  ;  under  the  horses'  feet, 
safe,  untouched,  in  the  narrow  central  strip  of  grass, 
lifted  high  between  the  two  trodden  furrows. 

The  rocky  walls  narrowed  and  still  narrowed  ;  we 
were  at  bottom  of  a  chasm.  Then  imperceptibly  our 
road  would  rise,  its  borders  widen,  and  we  would  find 
ourselves  on  a  narrow  divide,  with  deep  ravines  on 
either  hand.  I  am  at  utter  loss  to  describe  how  these 
Rocky  Mountain  ridges  underlie,  overlie,  cross,  and 
swallow  up  each  other.  They  remind  me  of  nothing  but 
masses  of  colossal  crystals,  so  sharp  their  edges,  so 
straight  their  sides,  so  endless  their  intersections. 
They  are  gigantic  wedges  driven  into  the  mountains 
and  each  other,  and  piled  up  again  in  tiers,  making 
mountains  upon  mountains.  The  ravines  between  them 
seem  to  have  been  cloven  by  them,  as  an  axe  cleaves 
wood  and  remains  fast  in  the  riif  it  has  made. 

Over  and  on  and  up  and  down  these  wedged  ridges, 
through  unvarying  pine  and  fir  forests  and  through  ever- 
varying  flower-beds,  we  slowly  cHmbed  the  range.     At 


A    COLORADO    WEEK.  263 

last  the  pines  and  firs  stopped.  We  were  eleven  thou- 
sand feet  high.  The  bare  ridge  on  which  we  were, 
tapered  to  a  point  before  us  and  disappeared  in  the  side 
of  a  stony  peak.  A  small  dark  lake  lay  in  the  hollow 
just  below  their  intersection.  A  sharp  wind  blew  from 
the  left ;  we  were  at  the  top.  We  looked  over  into  an- 
other ravine.  A  dark  wooded  mountain  shut  across  it 
like  a  gate  ;  between  us  and  it  were  a  bit  of  meadow 
and  a  little  stream. 

After  these,  the  ravine  narrowed  again  and  the  road 
grew  steep  and  rocky,  —  very  steep  and  very  rocky. 
Through  a  very  carnival  of  bowlders,  fallen  pines,  drift- 
wood, and  foaming  water  we  descended.  Soon,  through 
a  grand  rock  gateway,  we  saw  the  valley  of  the  Arkan- 
sas, olive-gray,  with  meandering  lines  of  solid  green 
marking  the  river  course,  and  with  strange  and  ex- 
quisitely beautiful  terraces  in  it,  rising  abruptly  and  in 
detached  curves,  —  the  record  of  changing  water-lines  in 
the  ancient  days.  As  we  reached  the  edge  of  the  val- 
ley, we  saw  a  faint  track  leading  off  to  the  left. 

'^Ah  !  "  said  Jack.  "  Here's  the  short  cut."  And  he 
turned  into  it. 

"What  short  cut?"  said  I,  being  by  nature  and  by 
experience  distrustful  of  short  cuts  to  any  thing. 

'•  There's  a  short  cut  through  here  down  to  the  river, 
that  saves  four  miles.  So  McLaughlin  said.  He's 
been  through  here.  It  don't  look  much  worn,  though  ; 
that's  a  fact,"  said  Jack,  as  we  drove  into  the  meadow 
grass. 

Zigzagging  around  that  meadow,  now  in  now  out  of 
sight,  over  boggy  places  and  round  hillocks,  led  that 
"  short  cut."  We  were  in  no  danger  of  losing  our  way, 
for  there  lay  the  Arkansas  meadows  in  full  sight ;  but 
the  road  seemed  to  be  making  no  special  headway 
toward  them.  The  question  was  about  the  ford. 
Should  we  hit  it .?  Presently  we  came  out  into  a  trav- 
elled road  and  in  full  sight  of  the  Arkansas  River  ;  that 
is,  of  several  tortuous  lines  of  alders  and  willows  in  a 
bright  green  meadow.     Not  a  gleam  of  water  to  be  seea 


264  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

Neither  did  our  short  cut  in  any  wise  cross  this  trav- 
elled road,  which  ran  parallel  with  the  river.  There  was 
no  suggestion  of  a  track  leading  down  to  the  river  at 
this  point.  Slowly  we  drove  up  and  down  that  road, 
peering  into  the  grass  on  its  river  side  for  sign  or  trail 
of  a  road  leading  to  a  ford.  There  was  none.  At  last, 
Jack,  giving  the  horses  a  revengeful  stroke,  as  if  they 
had  suggested  the  short  cut  poor  things  !  drove  rapidly 
up  the  road,  saying  :  "  Well,  I  reckon  we'll  save  time 
to  drive  up  to  the  ford  I  know,  four  miles  up  the  road." 

"  So  much  for  short  cuts.  Jack.  They  never  turn  out 
well,"  said  I,  as  we  passed  the  point  where  the  road  we 
had  forsaken  joined  the  one  we  were  on.  It  would 
have  brought  us  to  the  ford  an  hour  sooner. 

After  the  ford,  six  miles  down-stream  again,  through 
the  luscious  meadow  grass,  in  which  cows  grazed  ankle- 
deep.  The  mountains  we  had  crossed  stood  bare  and 
red  in  the  east,  the  mountains  we  were  still  to  enter 
stood  soft  and  blue  in  the  west,  —  two  high  ranges,  and 
the  Arkansas  River  and  its  meadows  between  ;"and  yet 
we  were  in  that  very  world  of  near  peaks  and  ravines 
and  ridges  upon  which  we  had  looked  down  from  Mount 
Lincoln  the  day  before.  We  had  thought  it  all  moun- 
tains. Yet  here  in  one  of  those  chasms,  which  had 
looked  to  us  like  nothing  more  than  clefts,  there  was 
room  for  a  river,  and  river  meadows,  homesteads,  and 
herds. 

The  sun  was  so  low  that  he  cast  huge  profiles  of 
shadow  on  all  the  northern  slopes  of  the  western  moun- 
tains, as  we  turned  toward  them.  Once  more  to  the 
right,  once  more  into  a  grassy  valley  making  up  be- 
tween the  foot-hills ;  soft,  round,  covered  only  with  low 
grass  and  a  pale  bluish  shrub,  they  fairly  shimmered  in 
their  ghostly  gray  as  the  twilight  settled  on  them.  One, 
two,  three,  four,  five  we  cHmbed,  and  seemed  to  get  no 
nearer  the  mountains.  ''  I'd  forgotten  there  were  so 
many  of  these  hills,"  said  Jack.  "  You'll  see  the  lakes 
after  the  next  one,  sure."  But  we  did  not;  nor  aftei 
the  next,  nor  the  next.     At  last  the  sight  came,  —  beau- 


A     COLORADO     WEiiK.  265 

tiful  enouo;h  to  have  been  waited  for.  Before  us  a  line 
of  high,  sharp  peaks,  dark  blue  nearly  to  the  top,  their 
summits  just  touched  by  the  red  sunset-light.  They 
seemed  to  curve  westward  and  to  curvs  eastward  till 
they  met  the  terraced  line  of  hills  on  which  we  stood. 
At  their  feet  and  at  ours  lay  the  two  lakes,  —  dark, 
motionless,  shining,  stretching  close  to  the  mountain 
bases  on  all  sides,  and  linked  to  each  other  by  a  narrow 
neck  of  green  land,  across  which  a  line  of  green  bushes 
stretched,  looking  like  a  second  band  set  to  strengthen 
or  to  adorn  the  first.  Afterward  we  saw  that  it  was  a 
closer  Hnk  than  we  dreamed  ;  for  beneath  the  line  of 
green  bushes  runs  a  Httle  creek,  mingling  the  waters  of 
the  upper  and  the  lower  lake  perpetually. 

Jack  turned  and  looked  at  us  in  silence. 

"  Yes,  you  were  right.  Jack,"  we  said.  "  It  is  more 
beautiful  than  any  thing  we  saw  yesterday,  and  it  is  a 
very  lonely-looking  kind  of  place." 

Not  so  lonely  as  we  could  have  wished,  however, 
when  we  drove  down  the  steep  hills  to  the  Log  Cabin 
Hotel,  where  we  must  sleep.  People  walking  about, 
white-covered  camp-wagons,  high-topped  buggies,  all 
told  us  that  we  were  too  late  on  the  list  of  arrivals. 

"  Indeed,  I  can't,  —  not  to  make  you  anyways  com- 
fortable," was  the  landlady's  honest  answer  when  we  ap- 
peared at  her  door,  saying:  "Here  we  four  are,  and 
must  stay.  Can  you  take  care  of  us  1 "  It  wasn't  so 
bad  as  it  might  have  been,  that  wind-swept,  fluttering 
room  in  which  we  went  to  bed  that  night,  bounded  to 
west  by  a  chinky  log  wall,  to  north  by  an  open  window, 
to  east  and  south  by  a  scant  cahco  curtain,  which  parted, 
but  did  not  sever  us  from  the  dining-room.  Colorado 
travellers  have  often  fared  worse,  no  doubt ;  but,  taking 
all  things  into  account,  we  thought  it  an  odd  coincidence 
that  over  at  the  head  of  one  very  unrestful  bed  there 
should  have  been  pasted  a  leaf  of  "  The  Overland 
Monthly,"  containing  the  first  stanzas  of  an  "  Ode  to 
Pain."  Never  shall  I  cease  to  regret  that  we  were  so 
stupefied  by  lack  of  sleep  and  by  the  repeated  alarms  at 


f  66  BITS  OF   TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

the  fluttering  calico  curtain  that  we  omitted  to  copy 
that  "  Ode  to  Pain."  The  pattern  of  the  cahco  of  the 
calico  curtain  I  recollect  perfectly, — it  is  stamped 
on  my  brain  for  ever;  but  not  a  line  of  the  Ode  can  I 
recall. 

All  the  next  morning  we  sat  under  a  pine-tree  on  the 
northern  shore  of  the  lakes  and  looked  out  upon  them. 
Marvellous,  lovely  twins  !  Ten  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea  and  thousands  of  miles  away  from  it,  they  held  all 
its  charm  and  none  of  its  sadness.  The  soft  waves 
lapped  on  the  shore  with  a  sound  as  gentle  as  the  sigh 
of  pines,  and  the  water  was  clear  as  crystal  sixty  feet 
down.  They  were  seas,  translated,  glorified,  come  to 
their  spiritual  resurrection,  and  wedded  to  each  other 
for  all  eternity.  The  lower  lake  is  about  three  miles  in 
length ;  the  upper  one  only  half  as  long.  They  are  not 
more  than  a  mile  and  a  half  wide.  But  when  you  sit 
on  the  shore,  and  see  the  great  mountains'  full  height 
and  the  dome  of  the  sky  reflected  in  them  as  in  a  glass, 
and  reaching  only  half  way  across,  they  seem  much 
wider.  The  mountains  are  wooded  half  way  up.  The 
green  line  of  firs  and  pines  and  aspens  reproduces  on 
the  mountain  side  exactly  the  line  which  the  summits 
make  against  the  sky.  This  beautiful,  jagged  summit 
line,  therefore,  is  three  times  mapped  in  the  beautiful 
picture, — mapped  first  in  red  against  the  blue  sky,  then 
in  green  on  the  mountain  side,  and  then  red  and  green 
outlines  both  are  mapped  again  together  on  the  dark 
amber  of  the  lake.  The  picture  seemed  to  be  drawn 
by  a  trembhng  hand.  At  the  slightest  breeze  on  the 
surface  it  quivered  and  was  effaced,  but  returned  in  an 
instant  again  if  the  breeze  died  down.  As  we  drove 
away  in  the  early  afternoon,  along  the  terraced  hills  on 
the  northern  shore,  the  lakes  were  motionless,  and  dark 
blue  as  tempered  steel,  and  the  picture  of  the  wooded 
mountains  stretched  across  the  shining  surface  in  Hues 
as  fine  and  distinct  as  Damascus  ever  graved  on  her 
magic  metal  for  blade  or  shield. 

We  followed  the  lake  outlet  down  toward  the  Arkansas 


A    COLORADO     WEEK.  267 

meadows  again,  over  more  of  the  soft,  sage-gray  hills, 
past  deserted  mining  villages  where  grass  grew  high 
round  blackened  hearthstones,  and  past  villages  where 
men  are  still  mining  for  gold,  down,  down  as  fast  as  the 
creek  into  the  fertile  bottom-lands.  The  Arkansas 
here  is  narrow,  and  doubles  on  itself  perpetually,  as  if 
it  sought  to  baffle  some  pursuer.  Its  meadow  at  this 
point  is  a  delicious  bit  of  color.  First  the  curving  lines 
of  willows  and  cottonwoods,  dark  green  ;  then  the  rank 
meadow  grass,  bright  yellow-green  ;  then  the  foot-hill 
slopes  of  the  exquisite  gray-green,  paling  to  silver-gray 
at  top,  and  with  the  red  soil  gleaming  through  every- 
where ;  then  the  dark,  wooded  slopes  of  the  mountains, 
reaching  up  to  ten  or  eleven  thousand  feet,  and  above 
those  the  bare  peaks,  gray,  or  red,  or  blue,  or  purple, 
according  to  the  day  and  the  hour.  Again  and  again  I 
wonder  at  the  ineffable  lovehness  of  the  soft  tints  in  this 
stern-visaged  country.  Again  and  again  I  long  for  an 
artist  to  come  who  can  seize  the  secret  of  their  tender- 
ness,  the  bloom  of  their  beauty.  The  meadow  grew 
less  and  less,  — from  fields  to  narrow  strips,  from  strips 
to  fringes  it  diminished,  and  the  mountains  came  closer 
and  closer.  On  every  side  of  us  were  weird  and  fan- 
tastic rocks,  shaped  in  all  manner  of  semblances,  so 
distorted,  so  uncouth,  so  significant  of  ages  of  violence, 
that  they  were  almost  fearful.  At  sunset  we  looked 
out  to  the  mouth  of  this  canyon  on  a  scene  bewilder- 
ingly  beautiful.  No  mirage  in  the  desert  ever  played  a 
more  fantastic  trick  upon  travellers  eyes  than  did  the 
sweet  light  and  mist  slanting  over  the  distance  beyond 
the  mouth  of  the  canyon.  Against  the  southern  sky 
rose  one  of  the  highest  mountain  ranges,  its  summit- 
line  majestically  cut  into  square  buttress  shapes  in  the 
centre,  and  in  slowly  lowering  peaks  and  undulations  to 
right  and  left.  It  was  two-thirds  in  shadow,  —  deep, 
dark  blue,  —  the  upper  third  so  bathed  in  light  that  the 
clouds  floating  above  it  seemed  part  of  it,  and  we  dis- 
puted with  each  other  hotly  as  to  where  the  real  crests 
of  the  mountains  were.     At  foot  of  this  range,  bathed 


268  BITS   OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

in  a  golden  light  and  yet  misty  and  pale  blue  in  parts, 
there  lay  what  seemed  to  be  a  great  city  of  Oriental 
architecture.  Domes  and  minarets  and  towers  and 
roofs,  — nothing  could  be  plainer.  The  light  streamed 
in  among  them  ;  the  beams  lay  in  dusty  gold  aslant 
across  them  ;  shining  spots  here  and  there  looked  like 
the  kindling  reflections  of  sunlight  on  glass  surfaces. 
What  could  it  be  .^  No  city,  certainly.  It  was  into  the 
wilderness  we  gazed,  but  what  did  the  shapes  mean? 
They  were  far  too  solid  to  be  mere  atmospheric  effects, 
optical  illusions.  As  well  as  if  we  were  touching  their 
foundations,  we  knew  that  they  were  solid,  real.  Be- 
hind us  the  western  sky  was  one  sheet  of  gold.  Float- 
ing crimson  clouds  hung  low  over  the  near  mountains, 
and  the  east  was  clear  blue.  Slowly  the  city  sank  into 
shadow.  Even  after  it  was  wrapped  in  gray,  the  domes 
and  the  minarets  and  the  towers  remained.  It  was  a 
city  still.  And  we  drove  down  into  the  valley  almost 
believing  that  some  strange  chance  had  brought  us  to 
that  height  at  the  exact  moment  when  the  sun's  rays 
had  revealed  some  unknown  ruins  in  a  hollow  of  the 
great  hills. 

There  could  hardly  be  a  sharper  contrast  than  that 
from  the  gorgeous  color  and  fairy-like  spectacle  on 
which  we  had  been  feasting  at  top  of  the  hill,  to  the 
dank,  dark  hollow  into  which  a  few  moments  brought 
us,  — ■  to  the  low,  flat-roofed  cabins,  and  the  sad,  worn 
face  of  the  woman  who  stood  in  their  doorway. 

The  cabins  were  built  close  to  the  bank  of  the  river. 
Hills  to  the  north  and  to  the  south  shut  in  all  the  damp- 
ness and  shut  out  hoursful  of  sun.  There  was  a  heavy 
and  ill-odored  moisture  in  the  air,  such  as  I  had  not 
supposed  could  exist  in  Colorado.  I  shuddered  at  the 
thought  that  we  must  sleep  in  it. 

In  reply  to  the  question  whether  she  could  take  care 
of  us  for  the  night,  the  sad-faced  woman  answered  :  — 

''  I'll  do  the  best  I  can." 

The  expression  of  her  face  made  my  heart  ache. 
She  looked  ill,  hopeless  ;  every  feature  showed  refine- 


A    COLORADO     WEEK.  269 

ment,  and  her  voice  and  her  words  were  those  of  an 
educated   woman. 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  from  the  East,"  I  said  to  her. 
The  tears  filled  her  eyes  instantly. 

"Yes,  I  am  from  New  York  State,"  she  said,  and 
turned  away. 

Before  night  we  knew  her  whole  story.  It  seemed  to 
be  a  rehef  to  her  to  tell  it  to  us.  She  had  been  a 
school  teacher  in  western  New  York.  Of  delicate  fibre 
physically,  and  of  an  unusually  fine  and  sensitive  mental 
organization,  she  was  as  unfitted  for  life  in  the  Colorado 
wildernesses  as  a  woman  could  well  be.  Yet  she  had 
borne  up  under  it  bravely  until  the  last  three  years, 
when  ill  health  had  been  added  to  her  other  burdens. 
Within  the  last  month,  two  of  her  three  children  had 
died,  and  this  last  blow  had  broken  her  heart.  One  had 
died  of  scarlet  fever,  and  the  other,  she  said,  "  of  this 
dreadful  new  disease  that  the  doctors  don't  know  much 
about, — the  cerebro-spinal  meningitis,  they  call  it,  or 
some  such  name." 

Poor  babies  !  No  wonder,  living  in  that  damp  hollow, 
with  the  river  miasms,  if  there  were  any,  shut  in  and 
kept  over  from  night  to  night  in  the  low-roofed  cabin  ! 

The  remaining  child,  a  little  boy  of  six  or  eight, 
looked  very  pale  and  lifeless.  He  too  had  had  the 
fever.  It  would  have  seemed  cruel  to  say  to  that  help- 
less mother,  "The  only  chance  for  healthful  life  for 
him  and  for  you  is  a  new  house  on  some  sunny  hill- 
side." Yet  I  yearned  to  say  it.  It  will  be  long  before 
I  forget  that  sad  little  home  on  the  Arkansas. 

The  next  morning  —  our  sixth  morning  —  we  set  out 
early  on  our  homeward  way.  A  few  miles  brought  us 
to  the  magic  city  of  the  night  before.  The  marvel  was 
not  so  strange.  Here  were  hills,  upon  hills,  —  sharp, 
rounded,  crowded,  piled  with  rocks,  which  even  by  day 
bore  almost  the  shapes  they  had  shown  to  us  by  night, 

—  pinnacles,    buttresses,- terraces,  towers,  with    sharp- 
pointed  firs  growing  among  them.     It  was  indeed  a  city 

—  a  silent,  tenantless  city  —  which  reminded  me  of  some 


270  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

of  the  stories  I  read  in  my  childhood  of  Edom  and 
Petraea.  We  were  in  the  canyon  still,  but  it  was  fast 
widening  and  bearing  to  the  right.  The  way  of  the 
Arkansas  River  lay  south,  and  we  could  follow  it  no 
longer.  We  must  turn  northward  and  climb  the  range 
again.  We  had  lost  many  hundred  feet  of  elevation  in 
coming  down  this  easier  way  by  the  river's  road.  Five 
hours  of  good  climbing  did  it.  Over  divide  after  divide, 
as  we  had  so  many  times  climbed  before  ;  under  the 
pines  and  among  the  flowers  and  out  on  the  bare  ridges 
at  top;  then  down,  miles  down,  into  the  grand,  stead- 
fast, reposeful  plain  of  the  park.  We  were  a  half  day's 
journey  now  to  the  south  of  Fair  Play  and  our  road 
skirted  the  western  wall  of  the  park.  We  looked  up 
into  all  the  lovely  valleys,  thrusting  their  arms  into  the 
forest  slopes  of  the  mountains.  They  were  alike  and 
not  alike,  —  all  green  and  smooth  and  creek-fed,  but  no 
two  of  the  same  outline,  no  two  of  the  same  depth,  any 
more  than  any  two  of  the  inlets  on  a  fretted  seashore. 
A  night  at  Fair  Play  again,  and  then  we  retraced  our 
road  of  the  first  two  days,  —  eastward,  instead  of  west- 
ward, across  the  park  ;  eastward  over  the  mountains 
and  through  the  passes,  and  at  sunset  of  the  eighth  day 
down  into  our  own  beloved  plains.  The  first  glimpse 
of  their  immeasurable  distance  was  grander  than  all  we 
had  journeyed  to  see. 

Their  mystic  vanishing  line,  where  earth  and  sky  seem 
one,  only  because  eyes  are  too  weak  to  longer  follow 
their  eternal  curves,  always  strikes  upon  my  sight  as  I 
think  there  would  fall  upon  the  ear  the  opening  perfect 
chord  of  some  celestial  symphony,  — a  celestial  symphony 
which  we  must  for  ever  strain  to  hear,  must  for  ever  know 
to  be  resounding  just  beyond  our  sense,  luring  our  very 
souls  out  of  this  fife  into  the  next,  from  earth  to  heaven. 

Only,  as  I  said,  from  a  Saturday  to  a  Saturday.  But 
what  a  week  it  had  been, — the  Holy  Week  of  our  sum- 
mer I 


A   STUDY  OF   RED   CANYON.  271 


A   STUDY   OF   RED   CANYON. 

ON  the  fourth  day  of  June,  1876,  Pike's  Peak  was 
white  with  snow,  and  glittered  in  the  sun  as  if  the 
snow  were  soHd  ice.  Half-a-dozen  httle  fleecy  clouds 
flitted  around  its  summit,  like  fairies  wrapped  in  swan's 
down  skating  back  and  forth  on  the  shining  surface. 
Nowhere  else  in  the  radiant  blue  dome  of  sky  was  a 
cloud  to  be  seen.  The  Fountain  Creek,  which  runs 
eastward  from  Manitou  toward  Colorado  Springs,  was 
swollen  high  by  melting  snows  in  the  mountains,  and 
dashed  along  with  foamy,  white-capped  waves.  A  tiny 
island,  not  more  than  two  or  three  feet  square,  full  of 
tall,  waving,  yellow  lupines,  was  so  nearly  swallowed  up 
by  the  torrent  that  it  hardly  looked  like  an  island,  — 
rather  like  a  gay  bark,  with  a  myriad  golden  pennons> 
tossing  on  a  stormy  sea. 

To  enter  Red  Canyon,  one  must  ford  this  creek  about 
two  miles  east  of  Manitou.  It  took  some  nerve  to  drive 
into  the  swift  current.  A  second's  swaying  of  the  car- 
riage, a  sudden  plunge  of  the  horses,  a  muffled  clattering 
of  their  feet  deep  down  beneath  the  water,  and  we  were 
out  on  the  other  side,  wheels  dripping  like  mill-wheels 
and  the  horses  shaking  themselves  like  Newfoundland 
dogs  after  a  swim. 

"  If  the  creek  should  continue  to  rise  while  we  are  in 
the  canyon,  what  then  ?  "  said  I,  as  we  rounded  the 
first  rocky  bank,  and  began  to  walk  the  horses  in  a  soft, 
green  open. 

"  Stay  here  till  it  fell,"  was  the  wise  and  sententious 
answer.  "  We  couldn't  ford  it  if  it  were  two  inches 
higher." 


272  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME 

How  much  did  this  thought  enhance  the  pleasure  of 
that  day  ?  Red  Canyon  was  not  only  Red  Canyon.  It 
was  a  possible  home,  lodging,  shelter,  —  a  sudden  sanc- 
tuary of  refuge.  Had  we  friends,  they  could  not  find  us, 
get  at  us.  Red  Canyon  had  taken  possession  of  us, 
had  chosen  to  monopohze  us  by  a  grim  and  daring  hos 
pitality  akin  to  that  of  the  feudal  ages.  Had  we  ene- 
mies, were  we  fugitives,  Red  Canyon  would  not  give  us 
up.  It  was  our  extempore  monarch  and  knew  nothing 
of  laws  of  extradition.  The  very  thought  of  these  pos- 
sibilities seemed  to  drop  a  veil  between  us  and  home^ 
only  three  miles  away  ;  to  lend  a  spell  as  of  unreckoned 
distance  and  uncounted  time.  The  day,  the  place, 
became  dramatic,  and  we  were  irresponsible  dramatis 
personcs,  with  no  trouble  about  learning  our  parts.  It 
was  a  novel  and  delicious  sensation,  —  one  of  the  many 
and  inexhaustible  surprises  which  they  enjoy  to  whom 
the  gods  have  granted  that  they  may  live  in  Colorado. 

And  so  we  studied  Red  Canyon.  First,  as  I  said,  is 
a  soft,  green  open  or  valley,  not  many  rods  wide,  its  left 
wall  red  sandstone,  in  thin  horizontal  layers,  piled  up 
from  fifty  to  a  hundred  feet  high,  jagged  edges,  water- 
worn  and  seamed,  with  pine-trees  growing  in  their 
crevices.  On  the  right  hand,  low  hills,  grass-grown,  a 
copse  of  oak  bushes  close  to  the  road  on  the  left  ;  on 
the  right,  one  of  wild  cherry-trees  in  full  bloom.  The 
sandstone  ledges  look  in  places  like  old  ship-keels, 
turned  up,  stranded,  battered.  The  oak  bushes  are  so 
close  to  the  road  they  brush  your  wheels.  The  road 
winds,  now  right,  now  left ;  more  ledges,  more  grassy 
hills,  more  isolated  rocks,  columns,  obeHsks,  all  red. 
Three  sharp  pinnacles  stand  out  on  the  left  and  seem  to 
narrow  and  cut  off  the  road.  A  second  more,  and  a 
cone-like  hill  beyond  has  risen  suddenly  like  a  green 
fortress  across  the  way  between  two  red  ledges.  Now 
the  road  winds  through  a  cottonwood  grove,  and  the 
hills  and  ledges  on  each  side  seem  to  be  slipping  past, 
above  the  tree-tops,  like  the  sHding  canvas  of  a  painted 
panorama.     Then  the    rift  widens    into  a  little   park. 


A   STUDY  OF  RED   CAN  YON.  273 

Close  In  front  is  one  sharp  sandstone  peak,  thick-grown 
half  way  up  with  pines  and  firs,  —  a  pyramid  of  red  set 
in  a  bowl  of  green.  Hills  upon  hills  rise  on  the  right, 
full  of  green  firs  and  pinnacles  of  red  stone.  Blue 
mertensias  and  penstemons  grow  among  them.  Now 
the  canyon  narrows  again.  It  is  only  a  chasm.  The 
ledges  on  each  side  present  a  front  as  of  myriads  of 
plate  edges,  so  thin  are  the  layers  and  so  many.  Again 
they  are  rounded  and  smooth.  One  on  the  right  looks 
like  a  gigantic  red  whale,  hundreds  of  rods  long.  Op- 
posite him  are  great  surfaces  of  slanting  rock,  finely 
striated,  as  with  engravers'  tools.  You  can  see  only  a 
few  rods  ahead.  The  road  is  a  gully.  Roses  begin  to 
make  the  air  sweet.  In  a  thicket  of  them,  the  road  turns 
sharply  round  a  high  rock,  and  you  are  again  in  a  little 
grassy  open,  some  hundred  yards  wide.  The  great  red 
stone  whale  on  the  right  has  his  backbone  higher  than 
ever,  and  dozens  of  loose  bowlders  are  riding  him.  On 
the  left  hand  the  rock  wall  is  perpendicular,  serrated  at 
top,  and  with  slanting  pinnacles  shooting  out  here  and 
there.  Tall  pines,  also,  seventy  and  eighty  feet  high, 
rooted  in  rocks  where  apparently  is  no  crumb  of  earth. 
At  the  base  of  this  wall,  a  thick  copse  of  oak  bushes, 
whose  young  leaves  are  of  as  tender  and  vivid  a  green 
as  the  leaves  of  slender  white  birches  in  June  in  New 
England.  Now  we  cross  a  broad  gully.  In  the  bottom 
of  its  red  and  sandy  bed  is  a  thread  of  shining  water. 
Ahead  looms  up  a  solid  mass  of  green,  —  a  fir  wood,  — 
out  of  which  taller  pines  rise  like  canopies  borne  over 
heads  below.  The  walls  on  either  hand  slope  back,  and 
have  here  and  there  little  plateaus,  which  are  thick  with 
foliage,  a  sort  of  brilliant  repousse  work  in  green  on  a 
red  background.  There  is  a  sharp  buzz  of  insects  all 
through  the  air.  Here  comes  another  little  thread-like 
stream  leaping  across  the  road,  and  suddenly  the  can- 
yon widens  again.  The  left-hand  wall  is  a  wall  of 
green,  none  of  its  stone  showing  through  ;  but  in  the 
centre  of  the  canyon  rises  a  huge  minster-like  pile  of 
red  stone,  with  tali  firs  and  pines  for  towers  and  spires. 
18 


274  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

Next  we  cross  a  dry  and  stony  gully,  and  come  to  gyp- 
sum quarries,  where  the  glistening  white  stone  is  tum- 
bled about  in  fine,  picturesque  masses,  —  a  sudden  and 
delicious  contrast  of  color  after  the  dark  reds  and  greens 
on  which  we  have  been  looking  so  long. 

The  canyon  narrows  ;  the  road  narrows  ;  the  walls 
seem  to  brace  their  very  feet  together.  Pink  wild  roses 
and  shrubs  of  a  beautiful  white-flowered  rubus  overhang 
the  road.  There  are  huge  red  bowlders  and  peaks  on 
our  left ;  green  hills  and  the  white  quarries  on  our 
right ;  a  disused  kiln,  also,  whose  white  doorway  looks 
ghostly.  The  road  sinks  into  rocky  chasms,  climbs 
out,  turns  such  short  corners  we  cannot  see  the  horses' 
lengths  ahead,  scrambles  over  bowlders  and  slabs  and 
piles  of  gypsum,  and  comes  to  a  dead  stop  in  front  of  a 
hill,  with  great  masses  of  cleft  rock  on  its  top.  This 
is  the  head  of  the  canyon,  —  the  hard  knot,  as  it  were, 
in  which  the  two  walls  are  tied. 

Tiers  of  soft,  green,  conical  hills  shut  us  in  on  all 
sides.  A  great  shelf  of  rock  juts  out,  and  makes  so 
large  a  shadow  that  a  party  of  four  or  five  might  be 
comfortably  bestead  here  for  a  night.  It  has  evidently 
been  often  used  for  such  shelter,  for  the  ashes  of  old 
fires  lie  thick  in  its  recesses. 

Summer  days  seem  always  reckoned  by  minutes,  and 
not  by  hours.  How  much  too  short  they  seem  in  Colo- 
rado it  would  not  be  wise  to  try  to  tell  ;  but  no  one  will 
forget  who  has  spent  many  of  them  out  of  doors  there. 

Red  Canyon  has,  doubtless,  many  secrets  to  keep.  I 
shall  keep  well  my  share  of  the  secrets  of  this  fleeting 
fourth  of  June. 

As  we  retraced  our  steps  in  the  late  afternoon,  the 
canyon  seemed  hke  a  new  one  we  had  never  seen,  so 
changed  was  it  by  our  changed  point  of  view.  It  is  far 
more  beautiful  as  you  go  down.  The  sides  seem  ab- 
rupter,  the  contrasts  more  vivid,  and  there  is  ever 
before  your  eyes  a  magnificent  background  of  distance 
to  the  north  and  northeast.  The  blue  wall  of  the 
divide  breaks  it,  and  the  grand  gates  of  the  Garden  of 


A  STUDY  OF  RED   CANYON.  275 

the  Gods  glow  like  pinnacles  of  red  cornelian  in  the 
sunset  light. 

The  creek,  which  had  been  so  full  of  foamy  white- 
caps  in  the  morning,  was  running  so  much  more  peace- 
fully when  we  crossed  it  at  night  that  our  horses  stood 
still  in  the  middle  and  drank  at  their  leisure  ;  and  the 
gay  bark,  with  its  yellow  lupine  pennons,  was  high 
above  water,  its  sides  looking  black  and  worn,  as  if  it 
had  been  in  battle. 


276  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 


CENTRAL  CITY  AND  BOB  TAIL  TUNNEL. 

THREE  hours  by  rail  from  Denver  to  Central  City, 
—  only  three  hours  ;  but  one  might  often  journey 
for  three  days  and  nights  without  making  so  sharp  \ 
transition.  To  go  in  three  hours'  time,  from  a  broad, 
dusty,  sun-smitten  plain,  into  cool,  dark,  pine-clad 
gorges,  and  up  and  out  upon  mountain  heights,  is  like 
being  hfted  in  one  day,  by  some  great  stroke  of  fate, 
from  a  stagnant,  commonplace  level  of  life  to  an  atmos- 
phere full  of  joy  and  purpose  and  action.  Who  that  has 
lived  and  loved  has  not  known  some  such  sudden  up- 
liftings  ?  Who  that  has  hved  in  and  loved  Colorado 
has  not  thus  journeyed  from  one  to  another  of  her  mar- 
vellous worlds  ?  Not  that  the  plain  which  bears  Denver 
on  its  bosom  can  ever  be  called  commonplace,  or  Den- 
ver stagnant  and  inert.  The  plain  is  majestic,  almost 
solemn  in  the  suggestion  of  its  distances  and  its  snow- 
topped  westward  wall  ;  and  Denver  is  bristHng  at  every 
turn  and  in  every  corner  with  the  sharpest  sort  of  action. 
Nevertheless,  the  plain  is  a  plain,  —  bare,  apparent, 
monotonous,  wearying,  hot ;  and  the  mountains,  —  God 
be  praised  for  them  for  ever,  —  are  reticent,  unfathoma- 
ble, eternally  varied,  restful,  cool.  So  long  as  the  world 
stands  shall  the  instinct  of  men  turn  to  fhem  for  the  best 
strengths  of  soul  and  body.  Three  hours  by  railroad,  I 
said  ;  but  the  last  two  hours  are  on  a  species  of  railroad 
for  which  I  think  some  new  name  should  be  invented. 
Simply  to  say  ''  narrow-gauge  "  conveys  no  idea,  except 
to  the  mind  educated  in  railroad  technicalities,  of  the 


CENTRAL   CITY,  ETC.  277 

slender,  winding,  curving  railroad  tracks  which  thread 
the  canyons  of  these  Colorado  mountains.  They  bear 
the  same  relation  to  the  common  railroads  that  a  foot- 
path does  to  a  turnpike,  and  their  agile  little  engines 
climb  like  goats.  "  Let  us  buy  it  and  take  it  home  to  the 
children,"  said  a  facetious  man,  the  other  day,  standing 
at  the  Colorado  Springs  Station  and  watching  the  ar- 
rival of  the  noon  train  on  the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande 
Railroad.  And.  indeed,  they  do  look  not  unlike  toys. 
They  make  magnificent  work  of  their  playing,  however, 
whisking  around  curves  of  thirty-one  and  thirty-two 
degrees  and  drawing  heavy  loads  up  grades  of  two  hun- 
dred and  eleven  feet  to  the  mile.  Wherever  water  can 
come  down,  a  narrow-gauge  railroad  can  go  up.  Side 
by  side,  on  equal  terms,  asking  no  favors,  it  will  make 
foothold  for  itself  on  the  precipices,  and  follow  the 
stream,  leap  for  leap,  grade  to  grade,  coming  out  tri- 
umphant, abreast,  at  top  of  the  mountain.  This  was 
the  way  we  mounted  to  Central  City,  through  Clear 
Creek  Canyon. 

The  walls  of  the  canyon  are  rocky,  precipitous,  and 
in  places  over  one  thousand  feet  high.  It  seems  little 
more  than  a  rift  in  the  mountain,  and  we  could  easily 
fancy  it  closing  behind  us  as  we  passed  on.  Fir-trees 
and  aspens  made  a  mosaic  of  dark  and  light  green,  like 
shaded  malachite,  on  the  sides.  Wild  roses  and  spi- 
raeas and  blue-bells  grew  on  the  edge  of  the  creek  and 
far  up  in  the  clefts  of  the  rocks. 

Wherever  the  creek  foamed  whitest  and  swiftest, 
there  the  pink  roses  and  blue-bells  waved  and  danced 
gayest.  Here  and  there  other  canyons  broke  the  wall, 
running  down  at  sharp  angles  to  our  road,  and  opening 
long,  narrow  vistas  of  view  to  right  or  left,  making  the 
labyrinth  of  overlapping,  interlacing  hills  seem  endless. 
Now  and  then  we  came  to  little  oases  of  green,  where 
the  creek  widened,  and  cottonwood  trees  had  found 
space  to  grow  and  branch  ;  now  and  then  to  picturesque 
little  water  stations,  perched  on  the  rocks,  with  foot- 
bridges thrown  across  the  creek  ;  though  for  what  the 


278  BITS  OF    TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

master  of  the  water-station  could  want  to  cross  to  the 
opposite  precipice  it  was  hard  to  conceive,  unless,  in- 
deed, it  might  be  to  pick  more  blue-bells.  On  one 
of  these  rocky  plateaus  was  a  high  swing,  its  beams 
fastened  by  firm  iron  stanchions  to  the  rock.  Far  out 
over  the  foaming  creek,  nearly  spanning  it,  the  ropes 
would  reach  if  the  swinger  were  bold.  Could  it  be  for 
some  child's  delight '^it  had  been  set  there.'*  We  won- 
dered whether  even  a  mountain  child,  born  in  Clear 
Creek  Canyon,  could  be  so  brave. 

Again  and  again,  as  we  looked  up  the  canyon,  we 
could  see  our  engine,  the  whole  of  the  first  car,  and 
part  of  the  second,  doubling  and  twisting  around  sharp 
curves  ahead.  The  train  seemed  supple-jointed  as  a 
serpent,  and  glided  without  jar  over  its  sinuous  path. 
The  wonder  of  this  was  so  great  and  the  beauty  of  the 
scene  so  marvellous,  that  throughout  the  train  every 
man  seemed  to  become  friend  to  his  neighbor  ;  on  all 
sides  strangers  were  talking  animatedly,  joyously,  shar- 
ing each  other's  delight  with  unaffected  enthusiasm. 
Everybody  said  to  everybody,  "  Oh,  look  !  "  Not  least 
among  the  endless  pleasures  of  journeying  in  this  grand 
old  New  World  of  ours,  is  the  satisfaction  of  finding 
out,  as  we  do  at  such  moments,  how  much  true  fellow- 
ship and  kinship  there  is  at  bottom  between  man  and 
man.  There  was  in  all  that  car  no  man  so  rough,  no 
woman  so  uncultured,  as  to  sit  stolid  and  unstirred  by 
the  grand  rocks,  the  leaping  stream,  the  beauteous 
blossoms,  and  the  incredible  marvel  of  our  swift  ascent. 

As  we  neared  Central  City,  the  hills  on  either  side 
grew  barer,  stonier,  higher;  and  along  the  creek  we  be- 
gan to  see  the  dreary  traces  of  that  dreariest  of  all 
things  on  the  earth's  surface,  gulch  mining:  long 
stretches  of  pebble  beds  torn  up,  rent,  piled,  bare, 
desolate  ;  here  and  there  a  few  palid  weeds  struggling 
to  crowd  their  way  down  and  up  between  the  stones 
and  live  in  the  arid  sand.  They  only  made  the  devas- 
tation look  ghasther.  Is  there  not  a  significance  in 
this  thing,  that  men  find  no  way  of  getting  gold  from 


CENTRAL    CITY,   ETC.  279 

the  earth's  depths,  without  so  marring,  blighting  all  the 
fair,  green  beauty  of  its  surface  ? 

The  railway  station  in  Central  City  seems  invested  at 
once  with  historical  interest  when  you  are  told  that  it  is 
known  only  by  the  name  of  "  Fitz-John  Porter's  Folly." 
Why  that  unlucky  general  should  have  been  permitted 
still  further  to  disgrace  himself  on  this  remote  and  un- 
military  field,  or  how  in  the  name  of  the  very  science  of 
blundering  he  could  have  spent  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars  on  this  low,  dark,  ill-shaped  purposeless  building, 
it  is  not  worth  while  to  ask ;  but  so  long  as  the  building 
stands,  men  will  not  cease  to  wonder. 

To  get  to  Central  City,  you  drive  through  Black 
Hawk.  Where  Black  Hawk  leaves  off  and  Central 
City  begins  seems  indefinite.  Why  a  part  of  the  gulch 
should  be  called  Black  Hawk,  and  a  part  Central  City, 
seems  to  a  stranger  inexplicable  ;  but  to  the  citizens  of 
those  two  towns  seem^  evident,  natural,  and  a  sufficient 
ground  for  antagonistic  rivalry.  To  say  literally  how 
"it  feels"  to  drive  in  the  streets  of  this  gulch,  or  the 
gulches  of  these  streets,  called  respectively  Black  Hawk 
and  Central  City,  would  be  to  commit  unpardonable  ex- 
aggerations. Why  the  towns  do  not  sHde  down  hill 
any  night,  in  one  great  avalanche  of  houses,  stamping 
mills,  smelting  works,  piles  of  slag,  ore,  mules,  bowl- 
ders, and  citizens,  I  do  not  know.  To  the  unaccus- 
tomed eye,  every  thing  and  everybody  seems  to  have 
been  miraculously  arrested  in  the  process  of  toppling 
down.  The  houses  are  perched  one  above  another,  on 
the  sides  of  the  gulch,  as  if  they  were  set  on  the  suc- 
cessive steps  of  ladders.  A  man  sitting  on  his  piazza 
may  rest  his  feet  on  the  roof-tree  of  his  neighbor  next 
below ;  and  so  on  all  the  way  down.  The  only  en- 
durable situation,  one  would  think,  must  be  at  the  top 
of  the  hill,  but  how  climb  to  that?  I  looked  to  see 
derricks  for  the  elevation  of  families  at  the  corners  of 
all  the  streets,  but  they  have  not  yet  been  introduced. 
However,  many  of  the  cross  streets  are  made  chiefly  oi 
stairs  ;    and  I  saw  mules  going  up  and  down  them  as 


28o  BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME 

naturally  as  cats  go  up  and  down  trees.  My  room  at 
the  hotel  was  on  the  second  floor.  Out  of  its  windows  I 
looked  across  a  very  narrow  street  into  the  basement  of 
the  house  opposite.  I  saw  many  small  houses  built 
where  the  precipice  was  so  steep  that,  as  you  looked  up 
from  the  street  you  saw  the  hill  above  the  house,  ap- 
parently making  a  continuation  of  the  roof.  It  pro- 
duced a  most  curious  optical  illusion.  No  house  thus 
placed  can  stand  so  straight  that  it  will  not  have  the 
look  of  tumbling  down.  Add  to  this  apparent  confusion 
of  toppling  houses,  intervals  of  bare,  brown,  rocky  hill- 
sides, dotted  everywhere  with  piles  of  gray  ore  thrown 
up  at  the  mouths  of  mines,  and  some  conception  may 
be  formed  of  the  desolateness  of  the  scene.  Not  all 
the  red  gold  of  Ophir  would  be  compensation  to  an 
artistic  soul  for  the  hourly  sight  of  such  desolation.  I 
fancied  that  the  whole  expression  of  the  town  seemed 
to  say,  "  We  endure  this  but  S.  short  time.  We  are 
here  only  for  a  season,  harvesters  of  gold.  As  soon  as 
the  harvest  is  reaped,  we  will  return  to  the  regions  of 
life  and  verdure  and  beauty."  Yet  there  were  many  of 
the  little  houses  which  looked  homelike, — had  white 
curtains,  and  flowers  in  the  windows  :  and  two  or  three 
had  small  trees  in  the  yards.  These  looked  like  oases 
in  Sahara. 

A  few  weeks  ago  a  fire  broke  out  in  this  gulch.  In 
less  than  three  hours  it  swept  away  a  third  of  the  town. 
It  seemed  for  a  time  as  if  nothing  could  stay  it.  High 
up  on  the  sides  of  the  precipices  were  gathered  the 
women  and  children,  watching  their  burning  homes.^ 
The  fire  must  have  looked,  at  bottom  of  that  narrow 
gulch,  like  a  second  stream,  with  fiery  waves,  rushing 
down  side  by  side  with  the  creek.  It  was  terrible  to 
imagine   it. 

There  are  treatises  on  metallurgy  which  give  detailed 
and  accurate  accounts  of  the  processes  by  which  gold 
and  silver  are  made  ready  for  buying  and  selling.  A 
person  who  has  seen  these  processes  in  the  mills  and 
mines  of  Central  City,  ought  to  be  able  to  write  such  a 


CENTRAL    CITY,   ETC.  281 

treatise.     There  is,    no   doubt,    something   organically 
wrong  in  the  constitution  of  a  mind  which,  at  the  end 
of  hours  of  wonderstruck  gazing  upon  such  mysteries, 
and  in  spite  of  the  most  minute  explanations  of  them, 
emerges  into  dayhght  and  poverty  as   ignorant  of  gold 
and  silver  as  before.     As  ignorant,  but  not  as  irreverent. 
The  smallest  gold  or  silver  coin  will  for  ever  seem  to  me 
a  talisman  of  necromancy,  a  link  with  the  powers  and 
the  principalities  of  the  air.     Have  I  not  seen  it  burn- 
ing without  fire,  by  virtue  of  its  own  sulphur  ?     Huge 
piles  of  it  lying  in   open  air,  stacked  up  like  charcoal 
mounds,  and  smouldering  away  sullenly  at  every  crev- 
ice, while  the  lurid  sulphur  gathered  in  yellow  incrusta- 
tions over  the  top,  and  made  a  superb  contrast  to  the 
column  of  amber  and  opal-colored  smoke  which  rose  in 
slow  coils  from  the  furnace  chimneys,  and  was  reflected 
like  sunset  clouds  in  the  creek  beneath.     Have   I  not 
walked  cautiously  through  dark  galleries  of   fiery  fur- 
naces, whose  open  mouths  glowed  and  glared  with  an 
evil  heat,  while  the  metal  boiled  and  bubbled  and  hissed 
within  .?     Have  I  not  seen  huge  tubs  where  a  part  of  its 
waste  was  slowly  turning  into  superb  crystals,  of  a  blue 
which  no  sapphire  could  match,  —  no,  not  in  centuries 
of  growth   in  the  heart  of   a  mountain  ?     Have    I  not 
climbed  stairs  to  a  platform  where  every  plank  under 
our  feet  was  a  trap-door,  and  opened  into  shallow,  tray- 
like boxes,  with  compartments,  where  the  fine  granu- 
lated   silver   lay   soaking,    stewing,    slowly    cooking   in 
boiling  water .''     Have  I   not  seen  the  final  furnaces  of 
all,  where,  in  small,  round  crucibles,  the  last  test  of  the 
hottest  fire  is  applied,  and  the  molten  metal  must  cease 
its  angry  and  resistant  seething,  and  become  calm  and 
smooth-surfaced   as    a   mirror.'*      When   the    workman 
sees  his  own  face  reflected  in  the  placid,  shining  sur- 
face, he  knows  that  the  refining  process  is  completed. 
From  that  instant  no  more  need  of  fire.     There   is   a 
Holy   Scripture  which  has  new  beauty  after   one   has 
seen  this.     And  there  might  be  a  scripture,  also  holy, 
of  human  love,  which  would  find  here  as  fitting  a  meta- 


282  BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

phor  for  the  peace  and  calm  of  the  highest  earthly  affec- 
tions. It  also  becomes  placid  at  the  greatest  fervor, 
and  reflects  the  loved  one's  face,  soul,  nature,  life  ;  and 
after  that  instant  no  more  need  of  fire  ! 

"  Can  I  not  go  mto  a  mine  ? "  I  said.  "  I  would  like 
to  see  the  beginning,  —  the  spot  where  the  hand  of 
Nature  reaches  out  and  lays  this  treasure  in  tne  hand 
of  man." 

One,  experienced  in  the  interior  of  mines,  smiled,  but 
answered  me  kindly  :  — 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  you  shall.  There  is  the  Bob  Tail  Tun- 
nel,    That  is  pretty  dry.     You  shall  go  into  that." 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Bob  Tail  Tunnel  we  met  its 
workmen  pouring  out.  It  was  six  o'clock.  Their  day 
had  ended.  Palhd,  dusty,  earth-stained,  they  looked 
like  no  joyous  seekers  after  riches.  Their  begrimed 
and  careworn  faces,  and  ragged  clothes,  seemed  a  bitter 
satire  on  the  words  silver  and  gold. 

Trotting  slowly  along,  head  down,  meek  and  sleepy, 
came  a  gray  mule,  drawing  a  small  iron  car  loaded 
with  ore. 

"  We  can  go  in  in  that,"  said  my  friend,  the  one  ex- 
perienced in  the  interior  of  mines,  "  It  isn't  too  late, 
Charley,  is  it  ? "  he  added,  turning  to  a  big  negro  who 
was  driving  the  mule. 

Charley  scrutinized  us.  "  No,  no  ;  jump  in,"  he  said. 
"I'll  take  the  lady  in." 

"In!"  It  was  hterally  "in."  The  mouth  of  the 
Bob  Tail  Tunnel  was  like  the  door  to  a  huge  brick 
oven  in  the  side  of  a  mountain.  Sitting  on  a  water-pail 
bottom  side  up,  in  that  car,  crouching  low  to  my  knees, 
grasping  a  bit  of  flaring,  dripping  candle  in  one  hand, 
and  rolling  myself  up  tightly  in  warm  wraps  with  the 
other,  I  entered  that  grim  cavern.  An  icy  blast  met  us. 
In  five  minutes  it  was  dark  as  midnight.  My  candle 
showed  me  the  bottom  of  the  car  and  the  spots  of  tallow 
on  my  skirts.  Charley's  candle  showed  me  the  shadows 
of  the  mule's  legs  on  the  sides  of  the  place  we  were  in. 
These  were  all  I  saw.     It  might  have   been  anybody's 


CENTRAL  CITY,  ETC.  283 

coal-bin,  or  cellar  stairs,  for  all  I  could  perceive.  Jolt, 
jolt,  rumble,  rumble,  on  we  went.  Suddenly  we  came 
to  a  halt.  By  a  chance  gleam  from  Charley's  candle,  I 
saw  another  oven  door  in  the  right-hand  wall. 

"Will  you  go  down  Number  Two  or  Number  Six, 
s.r?"  said  Charley.  "Here's  where  Number  Two 
leads  off." 

"What's  the  difference,  Charley  ?  "  said  a  reassuring 
voice  behind  me. 

"  No  great  difference,  sir.  Number  Two's  the 
longest." 

"  Keep  on  in  Number  Six,"  I  whispered. 

"  Keep  on  in  Number  Six,  Charley,"  said  the  re- 
assuring voice  behind  me,  —  the  voice  of  one  much 
amused,  the  voice  of  one  experienced  in  the  interior  of 
mines. 

"  All  right,  sir,"  said  Charley.  "  They're  blasting  in 
Number  Two  now,"  he  added,  as  the  mule  began  his 
jolting  trot  again. 

Above  us,  below  us,  around  us,  before  and  behind 
us,  pealed  that  blast.  The  echoes  seemed  louder  than 
the  blast.  It  was  terrific.  I  suppose  I  have  been  in  a 
gold  mine,  because  I  was  told  so  ;  but  I  know  I  have 
been  in  the  middle  of  a  thunder-clap,  for  I  have  felt  it. 

Even  the  one  experienced  in  the  interior  of  mines 
did  not  enjoy  this. 

"  All  right  here,  Charley  ? "  he  said.  And  I  wondered 
what  there  would  be  to  be  done  in  case  it  had  not  been 
"all  right." 

Dim  reminiscences  crowded  my  mind  of  accounts  I 
had  read  of  affecting  messages  which  miners  had 
scrawled  on  the  walls  of  choked-up  galleries. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  Yes,  sir.  All  right,  sir,"  chuckled  Charley. 

Charley  enjoyed  that  blast.  Presently  we  stopped. 
This  was  the  end  of  the  track. 

'•Are  we  a  mile  in  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Only  a  few  hundred  feet,"  was  the  reply.  I  did  not 
believe  it.  I  do  not  now.  I  firmly  believe  that  I  was 
standing  just  above  the  highest  tower  of  Pekin  at  that 
moment. 


284  BITS   OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

Charley  led  the  way ;  we  followed.  To  clamber  in 
the  dark  over  the  wildest  confusion  of  bowlders,  on  the 
top  of  a  mountain,  with  the  risk  of  bumping  your  head 
thrown  in,  —  this  it  is  to  walk  in  the  Bob  Tail  Tunnel. 
Anxiously,  and  as  well  as  I  could  by  my  very  little  can- 
dle, I  peered  at  the  walls  on  either  hand. 

''  Here's  a  fine  vein."  "  Here's  the  lead  theyxe  fol- 
lowing now."  *' Here's  the  pure  metal,  sir,"  said  Char- 
ley, enthusiastically,  at  every  step  of  the  way  holding  up 
his  candle  to  spots  a  little  darker  or  lighter  than  the 
rest.  Occasionally  I  fancied  I  saw  a  gleam  ;  but  it 
might  have  been  the  shining  of  the  candle-flame  on  a 
wet  spot. 

Soon  we  heard  the  sound  of  pickaxes,  —  clink,  thud, 
clink,  thud,  at  regular  intervals  ;  and  presently  quick, 
panting  breaths,  in  alternation  with  the  blows  ;  and  in  a 
moment  more  we  saw  just  ahead  of  us  an  arched  open- 
ing into  a  lighted  chamber,  and  the  forms  of  two  miners 
swinging  their  arms  with  powerful  strokes,  and  before 
each  stroke  drawing  in  a  heavy  breath.  This  was  the 
end  of  the  mine.  This  was  in  keeping  with  my  thought 
of  mystery,  of  some  subtle  bond  with  Nature.  Inch 
by  inch,  flake  by  flake,  these  two  men  were  winning, 
compelling  way  to  the  whole  of  the  secret  hid  in  the 
rock.  This  was  mining.  Until  midnight  they  were  to 
stand  in  that  chamber,  panting,  cleaving  the  solid  stone, 
journeying  toward  the  centre  of  the  earth.  Above  them 
the  city  would  be  at  rest ;  perhaps  they  would  be  the 
only  ones  not  sleeping.  How  strange  it  would  seem  to 
them  to  come  out  at  high  noon  of  night,  and  see  the 
heaven  full  of  stars  !  As  their  forms  bent  and  lifted, 
and  bent  and  lifted,  in  the  dim  Hght,  they  seemed  to  me 
not  human  beings,  doing  the  bidding  and  winning  the 
wealth  of  an  earthly  master  ;  but  gnomes,  spirits,  work- 
ing the  will  of  invisible  omnipotence,  as  they  must  have 
worked  who  wrought  "before  ever  the  mountains  were 
brought  forth." 

Never  shone  any  turquoise  in  the  eyes  of  eager  finder 
is  did  the  tiny  oval  of  blue  sky  at  the  mouth  oi  that 


CENTRAL    CITY,   ETC.  285 

tunnel  as  we  drew  near  it  on  our  return.  We  had  been 
in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  only  a  short  half  hour,  as 
clocks  reckon  minutes  ;  but  no  clocks  can  lose  or  gain 
time  as  hearts  can.  We  had  lived  the  lifetime  of  a 
miner ;  we  had  felt  what  it  might  be  to  die  his  death. 

Looking  down  on  the  town  at  sunset,  from  a  point 
high  up  on  one  side  of  the  gulch,  we  were  impressed 
anew  with  the  marvellousness  of  its  existence  under 
such  unfavoring  conditions.  Even  the  sunset  glow 
could  not  much  soften  the  barrenness,  the  rocky  con- 
fusion, of  the  sharp  and  angular  steeps. 

"  I  have  never  seen  any  thing  so  dreary,  unless  it  be 
in  northern  New  Hampshire,"  said  a  New  Englander 
of  the  party.  "  New  Hampshire  !  "  I  echoed,  loving 
New  Hampshire,  granite  and  all,  and  knowing  well  how 
all  the  granite  is  redeemed  and  made  gracious  by 
myriads  of  hchens  and  mosses  and  vines,  in  the  barest 
of  her  fields,  —  "  New  Hampshire  !  It  is  New  Hamp- 
shire wrong  side  out,  bottom  side  up,  and  after  a  spring 
freshet !  " 

But,  as  the  shadows  darkened  and  the  gulch  seemed 
to  grow  deeper  and  deeper  in  the  twihght,  a  sadder  and 
deeper  thought  took  possession  of  me.  This  strange, 
gold-filled  rift  in  the  mountains  seemed  to  me  like  a 
great  crucible,  into  which  had  been  cast  the  lives  of 
men  and  women  and  children.  Fiery  as  the  tests 
through  which  the  metals  pass,  must  be  the  tests  of  life 
in  such  a  spot.  How  much  must  be  consumed  and 
perish  for  ever,  that  the  pure  silver  be  refined ! 


S86  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 


GEORGETOWN     AND     THE     "TERRIBLE 
MINE." 

GEORGETOWN   is  the  American  cousin  of  Bad- 
Gastein,    As  Bad-Gastein  crowds,  nestles,  wedges 
itself  into  a  valley  among  the  Austrian  Alps,  so  does 
Georgetown  crowd,  nestle,  wedge  itself  into  its  canyon 
among  the  Rocky  Mountains.     And  as  the  River  Ach 
runs  through  and  in  the  streets  of  Gastein,   so  runs 
Clear  Creek  in  and  through  the  streets  of  Georgetown. 
But  Clear  Creek  does  not  leap,  like  the  Ach.     George- 
town has   no  waterfall.     Neither  are  the  sides  of  the 
canyon  wooded,  hke  the  beautiful,  glittering  sides  of  the 
Gastein   Valley.      Georgetown    is    bare    and    brown. 
Georgetown  is  Gastein  stripped  of  its  fortune,  come  to 
the  New  World  to  begin  anew  in  the  hard  pioneer  life. 
In  the  old  days  of  Gastein,  silver  and  gold  mines  were 
worked  in  all  the  mountains  round  about.     Those  were 
the  days  of  the  haughty  Weitmosers,  whose  history  is 
wrought  into  legends,  and  linked  with  every  rock  and 
forest  and  waterfall  in  the  Gastein  Valley.     Now  the 
Weitmoser  name  is  seen  only  on  tombstones,  and  the 
water-wheels   and   sluices  of  the   old  gold   mines    are 
slowly   rotting   away.      Perhaps   three    hundred   years 
hence  the  steep  sides  of  the  Georgetown  Canyon  will 
he  covered  again  with  balsams  and  pines  ;   the  pinks, 
daisies,  and  vetches  will  carpet  the  ground  as  the  pink 
heath  does  in  Gastein  ;  the  mill-wheels  will  stand  still ; 
the  mines  will  be  empty  ;    and  pilgrims  will  seek   the 
heights  as  they  seek  Gastein's,  not  because  they  hold 
silver   and  gold,  but  because   they  are   gracious   and 
beautiful  and  health-giving. 

To  Georgetown,  as  to  Gastein,  there  is  but  one  easy 


GEORGETOWN,  ETC.  287 

way  of  going,  —  that  is,  by  private  carriage.  The  pub- 
lic coaches  are  here,  as  everywhere,  uncomfortable, 
overloaded,  inexorable.  I  know  of  no  surer  way  to  rob 
a  journey  of  all  its  finest  pleasures,  than  to  commit 
one's  self  to  one  of  these  vehicles.  It  means  being 
obliged  to  get  up  at  hours  you  abhor,  to  sit  close  to 
people  you  dislike,  to  eat  when  you  are  not  hungry,  to 
go  slowest  when  there  is  nothing  to  see  and  fastest 
when  you  would  gladly  hnger  for  hours,  to  be  drenched 
with  rain,  choked  with  dust,  and  never  have  a  chance 
to  pick  a  flower.     It  means  misery. 

The  private  carriage,  on  the  other  hand,  means  so 
much  of  delight,  freedom,  possession,  that  it  is  for  ever 
a  marvel  to  me  that  all  travellers  with  money,  even  with 
a  little  money,  do  not  journey  in  that  way.  Good 
horses,  an  open  carriage,  bright  skies  overhead  ;  be- 
loved faces, — eager,  responsive,  sympathetic,  —  on 
either  hand  ;  constant  and  an  unrestrained  interchange 
of  thought,  impression,  impulse,  — all  this,  and  the 
glorious  out-door  world  added !  Is  there  a  way  of 
being  happier  ?      I   think  not. 

It  was  thus  that  we  set  out,  early  on  a  June  day,  to 
go  from  Central  City  to  Georgetown. 

"  Up  to  Georgetown,"  somebody  said  in  our  hearing. 

"  Is  there  any  going  further  up  1 "  we  exclaimed. 

It  had  not  seemed  that  there  could  be.  Did  not  the 
sky  rest  on  the  tops  of  the  sharp-precipiced  hills  near 
whose  summits  we  were  clinging  1 

Nevertheless  it  was  ''  up  "  to  Georgetown  at  first,  — 
up  through  Nevada  Gulch,  a  steeper,  narrower,  stonier, 
dirtier  gulch  than  we  had  yet  seen,  more  riddled  with 
mines  and  crowded  with  more  toppling  houses.  Then, 
out  upon  what  seemed  an  "open"  by  comparison  with 
the  gulches,  but  was  really  only  an  interval  of  lesser 
hills  and  canyons.  Deserted  mills,  mines,  and  cabins 
were  here ;  hardly  a  trace  of  cultivation,  but  every- 
where green  shrubs  and  luxuriant  flowers,  to  show  what 
fertility  was  lying  neglected  in  the  unused  soil.  Three 
miles  of  this,  and  then,  turning  to  the  left,  we  plunged 


288  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME 

into  a  road  so  stony,  so  overgrown,  it  seemed  hardly 
possible  it  could  be  the  one  we  had  been  told  to  take  tc 
reach  the  top  of  Belle vue  Mountain. 

Let  no  one  forget,  in  going  from  Central  City  tc 
Georgetown,  to  ask  for  and  find  this  wild  path.  Its  out 
look  is  worth  all  the  rest  of  the  journey. 

It  was  a  severe  climb,  — we  did  not  know  how  severe, 
for  our  eyes  were  feasting  on  the  wayside  loveUnesses 
of  green  oak  and  juniper  and  golden  asters,  white 
daisies  and  purple  vetches.  From  the  bare  and  stony 
gulches  we  had  left  behind,  to  this  fragrance  and  color, 
was  a  leap  from  a  desert  into  a  garden.  Suddenly 
looking  up,  we  found  that  we  were  also  looking  off. 
We  were  on  a  grand  ridge  or  divide,  around  which 
seemed  to  centre  semicircles  of  mountains.  So  high 
and  so  separated  is  this  ridge,  and  yet  so  central  in  the 
great  fields  of  peaks  which  make  up  this  part  of  the 
great  Rocky  Mountain  chain,  that,  while  we  could  look 
off  far  enough  to  see  the  Snowy  Range,  we  could  also 
look  down  into  the  canyons  and  gorges  among  the 
nearer  mountains.  It  was  a  surpassing  sight !  It  is 
one  of  the  few  extended  views  I  have  seen  which  have 
also  composition,  beauty  of  grouping,  and  tenderness 
of  significance  and  revelation.  We  could  see  long, 
shining,  serrated  spaces  of  the  sohd,  snow-covered 
peaks,  the  highest  on  the  continent,  —  peaks  from  whose 
summit  one  could  look,  if  human  vision  were  keen 
enough,  to  the  Western  and  the  Eastern  Oceans. 
These  lofty  serrated  lengths  of  shining  snow  lay  cut 
against  the  uttermost  horizon  blue,  like  an  alabaster 
wall  rounding  the  very  world.  Seeming  to  join  this 
wall,  and  almost  in  lines  of  concentric  curves,  were 
myriads  and  masses  of  lower  mountains,  more  than  the 
eye  could  count.  To  the  very  foot  of  the  watch-tower 
ridge  on  which  we  stood,  the  peaks  seemed  crowded. 
We  could  look  into  the  green  valleys  lying  between 
them,  and  trace  the  brown  thread  of  road  winding  up 
each  valley.  We  sat  under  the  shade  of  pines  and  firs. 
The  ground  was  gay  with  yellow  lupines,  daisies,  and 


GEORGETOWN,   ETC.  289 

^eat  mats  of  killikinnick  vines  (the  bear-berry)  with 
full  clusters  of  delicate  pink  bells,  as  lovely  as  arbutus 
blossoms,  and  almost  as  fragrant. 

Ten  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  yet  the  air  was 
as  spicy  and  summer-laden  as  in  an  Italian  June  !  Ten 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  yet  the  warm  wind 
burnt  our  faces  fiercely,  and  the  snow-topped  horizon 
wall  seemed  like  a  miracle  under  such  a  tropical  sun  ! 

On  the  very  summit  of  the  mountain,  even  here 
among  the  daisies  and  lupines,  and  within  sight  of  all 
the  solemn  kingdoms  of  mountains,  we  came  upon  one 
who  dug  for  gold.  He  was  a  German,  tall,  broad- 
chtsted,  straight-shouldered,  blue-eyed,  flaxen-haired, — 
a  superbly  made  man.  Health  and  power  actually 
seemed  to  radiate  from  him  under  the  sunlight,  and  the 
unconscious  joyousness  of  their  unconscious  possession 
lighted  his  eye  and  beamed  in  his  smile.  He  stood  all 
day  long  at  the  mouth  of  a  shaft,  and  drew  up  buckets 
full  of  ore  which  might  mean  a  few  dollars  of  gold.  It 
was  an  old  claim.  He  had  two  partners  in  the  owner- 
ship of  it,  and  they  were  now  working  it  for  a  few 
months,  merely  to  comply  with  the  provisions  of  the 
recent  Miner's  Act.  He  spoke  that  dehcious  and 
effective  broken  English  which  only  Germans  use. 
To  him  the  Act  meant  personal  inconvenience ;  but  he 
had  thought  deeper  than  that.  "  It  is  good  for  the 
country.  There  will  be  not  the  wild  cat  any  more.  It 
shall  be  that  a  man  do  not  throw  his  money  away  that 
another  man  shall  move  his  stakes  in  the  night." 

I  do  not  know  why  this  man's  figure  seemed  to  me 
more  typical  of  the  true  genius  and  soul  of  gold- winning 
than  all  the  toihng  crowds  in  mining  towns.  It  was, 
perhaps,  the  loneliness  of  the  spot,  the  glorious  lift  of 
it  above  the  world  around,  or  even  the  beauty  of  the 
blossoms  and  the  scent  of  the  firs.  It  might  have 
been  just  such  a  nook  in  the  Hartz  Mountains  to  which 
the  genii  of  gold  and  silver  led  the  favored  mortals  to 
whom  they  elected  to  open  the  doors  of  their  treasure- 
house. 

19 


290  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

From  Bellevue  Mountain  to  Idaho  it  is  three  miles, 
downhill.  Not  downhill  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of 
'the  word,  not  such  downhill  as  one  may  have  three 
miles  of  any  day  in  northern  New  England  ;  but  down- 
hill in  a  canyon, — that  is,  downhill  between  two  other 
hills  so  sharp  that  they  wall  the  road.  Truly,  labyrinths 
of  interlacing  hills  can  be  marvellous.  Much  I  ques- 
tion whether  the  earth  holds  anywhere  a  more  delightful 
confusion  than  has  been  wrought  out  of  these  upheavals 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  planted  with  firs  and 
bluebells.  In  a  hollow  made  by  the  mouth  of  the  can- 
yon down  which  we  had  driven,  and  by  the  mouths  of 
several  other  canyons,  all  sharp-walled  and  many- 
curved,  lay  Idaho.  From  the  tops  of  the  mountains 
which  circle  it,  the  little  handful  of  houses  must  look 
like  a  handful  of  pebbles  at  the  bottom  of  an  emerald- 
sided  well.  Thither  come  every  summer  multitudes  of 
men  and  women, —  Coloradoans,  Californians,  and  trav- 
ellers from  the  East,  —  seeking  to  be  made  well  and 
strong  by  bathing  in  hot  soda  springs,  which  bubble 
out  of  the  rocks  of  a  small  creek. 

For  the  benefit  of  those  who,  not  being  disciples  of 
Hahnemann,  do  not  shudder  at  the  thought  of  medi- 
cated baths,  I  give  the  analysis  of  the  water  : — 

Carbonate  of  Soda 30.80 

Carbonate  of  Lime 9.52 

Carbonate  of  Magnesia 2.88 

Carbonate  of  Iron 4.12 

Sulphate  of   Soda 29.36 

Sulphate  of  Magnesia 18.72 

Sulphate  of   Lime 3.44 

Chloride  of  Sodium 4.16 

Silicate  of  Soda 4.08 

Chloride  of  Calcium  and  Magnesium,  of  each  a  trace. 


107.00 


If  it  were  proposed  to  any  man  to  go  into  an  apothe- 
cary's shop  and  take  from  the  big  jars  on  the  shelves 
all  these  carbonates,  sulphates,  silicates,  and  chlorides, 
dissolve  them  in  his  bath-tub,  and  then  proceed  to  soak 


GEORGETOWN,   ETC.  291 

himself  in  the  water,  absorbing  the  drugs  through  his 
miUion-pored  skin,  he  would  probably  see  the  absurdity 
and  the  risk  of  the  process.  But,  because  Narure,  for 
some  mysterious  purposes,  has  seen  fit  to  brew  these 
concoctions  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  which  spits 
them  out  as  fast  as  it  can,  men  jump  at  the  conclusion 
that  they  are  meant  for  healing  purposes,  and  that  one 
cannot  drink  too  much  of  them,  or  stay  in  them  too 
long. 

"  Do  you  take  the  baths  yourself?"  I  asked  the  man 
in  charge  of  the  "Pioneer  Bathing  Establishment." 

"  Yes'm,  I'm  tryin'  'em.  But  if  I  stay  in  more  'n  fif- 
teen minutes,  I  get  just  as  weak  as  any  thing,  —  real 
weak  feeling  all  over  :  it  seems  as  if  I  couldn't  get  out. 
But  there's  plenty  of  folks  that  comes  and  stays  in  an 
hour  and  a  half,  and  say  it  does  'em  good." 

''But  are  you  not  afraid  of  any  thing  which  is  so 
powerful  that  it  makes  you  feel  so  weak  in  so  few  min- 
utes ?  Why  do  you  take  the  baths  at  all  ?  Are  you 
ill .?  "  I  said. 

"  No'm,  I  ain't  sick.  Leastways,  nothing  to  speak 
of.  I  hain't  ever  been  very  strong.  But  I  thought  I'd 
try  'em.  The  doctors  all  say  they're  good,  and  I  expect 
they  must  be ;  they  ought  to  know.  And  I'm  here  all 
day,  with  not  much  of  any  thing  to  do.  I  might  as  well 
go  in." 

What  an  epitome  of  truth  in  the  bathman's  words  ! 
What  an  unconscious  analysis  of  the  process  by  which 
patients  are  made,  —  lack  of  occupation,  and  an  ignorant 
faith  in  doctors'  assertions. 

Up  a  westward  canyon  from  Idaho  lies  the  road  to 
Georgetown, — twelve  miles  of  it.  There  is  just  room 
for  it  and  for  Clear  Creek,  and  for  narrow  rims  of  cotton- 
wood,  willow^-,  and  wild  roses,  and  for  here  and  there  a 
bit  of  farm..  The  sides  of  the  canyon  are  sometimes 
bare,  stony  ;  sometimes  green  with  pines  and  firs  and 
young  aspens  ;  sometimes  gray,  because  fire  has  killed 
the  pines  ;  sometimes  gray  with  piles  of  ore  thrown  up 
from  mouths  of  mines  ;   always  a  changing  succession 


292  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

of  color  ;  always  a  changing  succession  of  shape,  of 
contour.  Ah  !  the  twelve  miles  it  is  to  remember  ;  and 
alas  !  the  twelve  miles  it  is  to  long  and  yet  fail  to 
describe.  Canyons  after  canyons  open  and  shut  as  we 
pass.  Just  such  a  road  as  we  are  on  flings  its  alluring 
brown  thread  up  each  one.  If  there  were  no  such 
thing  as  a  fixed  purpose,  and  an  inexorable  appointed 
day,  we  would  follow  each  clew  and  learn  each  canyon 
by  heart.  No  two  canyons  are  alike  to  true  lovers  of 
canyons,  any  more  than  any  two  faces  are  alike  to  the 
student  of  faces.  To  the  outer  edge  of  the  concentric, 
curving  ranges  of  this  Rocky  Mountain  chain  one 
might  journey,  in  and  out  and  up  and  over,  and  in  and 
out  and  in  and  out  again,  I  am  persuaded,  all  summer 
long,  for  summers  and  summers,  and  find  no  monotony, 
no  repetition.  That  is,  if  one  be  a  lover ;  and  if  one 
be  not,  what  use  in  being  alive  ?  Rather,  one  should 
say,  in  having  a  name  to  live  while  one  is  dead. 

Georgetown  is  a  surprise  at  last.  It  has  no  strag- 
gling outposts  of  houses,  and  you  have  become  so 
absorbed  in  climbing  the  canyon,  watching  the  creek 
and  the  mountains,  the  trees  and  the  flowers,  that  you 
forget  that  a  town  is  to  come.  Suddenly  you  see  it  full 
in  view,  not  many  rods  ahead,  wedged,  as  I  said  before, 
like  Bad-Gastein,  —  crowded,  piled,  choked  in  at  the 
end  of  the  narrowed  rift  up  which  you  have  climbed. 
In  and  out  among  the  narrow  streets  runs  the  creek, 
giving  shining  and  inexplicable  glimpses  of  water,  here, 
there,  and  everywhere,  among  the  chimney-tops  and 
next  to  doorsteps.  The  houses  are  neat,  comfortable, 
and  have  a  suggestion  of  home-loving  and  abiding, 
quite  unlike  the  untamed  and  nomadic  look  of  Central 
City.  You  turn  corner  after  corner,  crossing  the  moun- 
tain side  sharply  at  each  turn,  and  getting  up  higher 
and  higher,  street  by  street,  till  on  the  very  highest 
level  you  come  to  the  Barton  House,  and  look  off  from 
its  piazza  over  the  roofs  of  the  town.  On  either  hand 
are  towering  mountain  sides,  dotted  wellnigh  to  the 
tops  with  the  shining  pyramids  of  the  gray  ore  thrown 


GEORGETOWN,   ETC.  293 

up  by  mines.  They  mark  lines  like  ledges  hundreds  of 
feet  above  the  town.  The  hills  are  honey-combed  by 
galleries  and  shafts  ;  but  they  look  still  and  peaceful 
and  sunny  as  the  virgin  hills  of  the  Tyrol. 

"  Shall  we  go  down  into  a  silver  mine  .-^  Have  you 
had  enough  of  mines?"  said  the  one  experienced  in 
mines. 

"  Never  enough  of  mines,"  I  replied.  "  And  down 
into  a  mine  must  be  a  thing  quite  unlike  headforemost 
into  a  mine.     Let  us  go." 

"  Then  I  will  take  you  to  the  *  7  errible  Mine,  "  he 
said.     "  It  is  the  nearest,  and  one  of  the  largest." 

"  Is  it  so  very  terrible  ?  "  I  asked.  The  word  was  not 
alluring. 

"  Only  '  Terrible  '  by  reason  of  the  amount  of  money 
sunk  in  it,"  he  laughed.  "  It  is  the  most  picturesquely 
situated  and  attractive  mine  I  know  of.  But  it  has 
swallowed  up  more  money  than  any  other  three  mines 
in  the  region,  and  is  only  just  now  beginning  to  pa).' 

As  the  horses'  heads  were  turned  sharp  to  the  right 
from  the  hotel  door  and  we  began  to  climb  again,  I  ex- 
claimed, incredulously  :   "  What,  still  further  up  1  " 

"Oh,  yes!  two  miles  straight  up.  There  might  be 
a  ladder  set  from  here  to  there,  if  one  could  be  made 
long  enough,"  was  the  reply.  If  it  had  been  a  ladder  it 
would  have  seemed  safer.  A  narrow  shelf  on  the  pre- 
cipitous side  of  the  mountain,  —  winding,  zigzagging  up 
in  a  series  of  sharp  curves,  with  only  a  slight  banking 
of  the  earth  and  the  stone  at  the  outer  edge,  and  a  sheer 
wall  hundreds  of  feet  below,  down  to  the  foaming  creek, 
—  this  is  the  terrible  road  up  to  the  "Terrible  Mine." 
It  was  like  swinging  out  into  space  when  we  turned  the 
corners.  Teams  heavily  loaded  with  silver  ore  w-ere 
coming  down.  In  places  where  two  inches'  room  made 
all  the  odds  between  being  dashed  over  the  precipice 
and  not,  we  passed  them,  —  that  is,  our  carriage  passed 
them.  We  were  not  in  it.  We  were  standing  close  to 
the  inner  wall,  backed  up  against  it,  holding  our  brealhs 
to  make  ourselves  thin.     "  Can't  go  on  the  outside,  sir, 


294  BITS  OF   TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

with  this  load,"  was  the  firm  though  respectfully  sym 
pathizing  reply  of  teamster  after  teamster  ;  and  on  the 
outer  and  almost  crumbling  edge  of  the  road,  where  the 
heavy  load  of  ore  would  have  been  in  danger  of  crush- 
ing down  the  entire  shelf,  there  our  wheels  were  airily 
poised,  waiting  for  the  wagons  to  pass.  More  than 
once,  watching  closely  from  behind,  I  failed  to  see  even 
a  rim  of  road  beyond'  the  wheel.  One  careless  misstep 
of  a  horse,  one  instant's  refusal  to  obey  the  rein,  and 
the  carriage  would  have  toppled  over  and  down  into  the 
foam.  Yet  our  driver  seemed  as  unconcerned  as  if  he 
had  been  driving  on  a  broad  boulevard,  and  had  evi- 
dently a  profound  contempt  for  his  passengers,  who 
persisted  in  jumping  from  the  carriage  at  every  turn-  out. 

The  creek  was  one  pauseless  torrent  of  white  foam. 
All  the  beautiful  amber  spaces  were  gone.  Not  a 
breath  did  it  take  ;  it  seemed  like  two  miles  of  continu- 
ous waterfall.  Tall  fir-trees  shaded  it,  but  their  tops 
were  far  below  us  ;  their  shining  darkness  made  the 
white  of  the  foaming  water  all  the  whiter  by  contrast. 
On  the  rocky  wall  on  our  right  were  waving  flowers  and 
shrubs,  —  columbines,  bluebells,  spiraeas  ;  so  slight  their 
hold  they  seemed  but  to  have  just  alighted,  like  gay- 
winged  creatures,  who  might  presently  soar  and  pass  on. 

One  thread-hke  stream  of  water  came  down  this  preci- 
pice. It  zigzagged  to  get  down  as  much  as  we  were 
zigzagging  to  get  up.  At  turn  after  turn  in  the  road  we 
continued  to  see  new  leaps,  new  falls  of  it,  until  at  last 
we  saw  the  spot  where  it  cleft  the  uppermost  rock,  look- 
ing hke  nothing  but  a  narrow,  fleecy  wisp  of  cloud, 
lying  half  on  the  gray  summit  and  half  on  the  blue  sky. 

The  miners'  cabins  were  perched  here  and  there 
among  the  bowlders,  hundreds  of  feet  up,  bare,  shelter- 
less, remote.  They  looked  more  like  homes  for  eagles 
than  for  men.  No  path  led  to  them  ;  no  green  thing, 
save  firs  and  low  oaks,  grew  near  them  ;  only  by  the 
sharp  roof-tree  line  could  one  tell  them  from  the  rocks 
which  were  piled  around  them. 

At  the  end  of  two  miles,  we  came  to  a  spot  where 
creek  and  road  and  precipice  paused  and  widened.     The 


GEORGETOWN,  ETC.  295 

creek  was  dammed  up,  making  a  smooth,  clear  lake, 
with  odd  little  pine-planked  bridge-paths  circling  it ;  the 
road  space  widened  into  a  sheltered,  shady  spot,  where, 
nestled  against  the  mountain  of  stone,  stood  three  or 
four  small  buildings.  A  fountain  played  before  one  and 
children  played  before  the  others.  These  were  the 
offices  and  homes  of  the  men  in  charge  of  the  mine,  and 
the  mouth  of  the  mine  was  in  sight,  high  up  on  the 
mountain  side.  An  enormous  pyramid  of  the  glistening 
gray  ore  lay  in  front  of  it.  On  the  top  of  this  two  men 
were  at  work  loading  the  ore  into  small  buckets,  swung 
on  wire  from  the  mouth  of  the  mine  to  the  top  of  a  high 
derrick  on  the  edge  of  the  creek.  Back  and  forth  and 
back  and  forth  glided  the  buckets,  swift  and  noiseless. 
The  wire  was  but  just  visible  in  the  air  ;  the  buckets 
seemed,  coming  and  going,  like  huge  shining  shuttles, 
frmg  by  invisible  hands. 

By  gasps  we  threaded  our  way  among  the  bowlders 
and  up  to  the  mouth  of  the  mine.  Here,  indeed,  a  lad- 
der would  have  been  a  help. 

Then,  miners'  jackets  on  our  shoulders,  candles  in 
our  hands,  facing  an  icy  wind  and  breathing  the  fumes 
of  gunpowder,  again  we  entered  the  earth  by  an  oven- 
door  in  a  rock.  We  walked  on  the  iron  rails  of  the 
track,  down  which  cars  loaded  with  ore  came  constantly 
rumbhng  out  of  the  darkness.  We  shrank  into  cran- 
nies of  the  rock  to  let  them  pass.  The  track  was  wet 
and  slippery.  It  seemed  a  long  way,  but  was  only  a  few 
hundred  feet,  before  we  came  to  a  vaulted  chamber,  so 
dimly  lighted  that  it  looked  vast.  Strange  sounds  came 
from  its  centre.  As  our  eyes  gradually  grew  used  to 
the  darkness,  a  strange  shape  in  its  centre  grew  gradu- 
ally distinct.  The  sounds  and  the  shape  were  one.  It 
was  a  steam-engine.  It  was  at  work.  Puff,  puff,  hiss, 
creak,  slide,  —  weird  beyond  all  power  of  words  to  say 
sounded  these  noises  in  that  ghostly  place.  A  gnome- 
like shape,  in  semblance  of  a  man,  stood  by,  with  a 
controlling  hand  on  the  puffing  engine. 

"  Would  you  hke  to  go  down  in  the  mine  ? "  said  the 
Shape,  courteously. 


296  BITS  OF  TFA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

It  was  a  hospitable  gnome.  This  was  the  one  entet- 
tainment  at  his  command.  TrembHngly  I  said  "  Yes. 
The  Shape  disappeared.  We  were  left  alone  in  the 
vaulted  chamber.  The  steam-engine  stopped.  No 
sound  broke  the  silence.  The  darkness  seemed  to  grow 
darker.  I  reached  out  for  a  friendly  hand,  and  was  just 
about  to  say,  "This  is,  indeed,  the  'Terrible  Mine,'" 
when  a  sudden  hght  flashed  into  the  place,  and,  spring- 
in'^  back,  I  saw  the  head  of  another  Shape  coming  up 
from  an  aperture  at  my  feet.  A  trap-door  had  been 
flung  open.  The  Shape  had  a  lighted  candle  in  the 
band  of  his  cap.  If  I  were  to  describe  him  as  he  ap- 
peared to  me  in  that  first  instant,  I  should  say  that 
frightful  flames  issued  from  his  forehead.  He  smiled 
friendlily  ;  t)ut  I  grasped  the  protecting  hand  closer. 

"  Is  the  lady  coming  down,  sir  ?  The  bucket  will  be 
up  in  a  minute,"  he  said. 

This  was  the  mouth  of  the  shaft.  The  Shape  had 
crawled  up  on  a  ladder.  It  was  no  more  than  an  ordi- 
nary front  stairs  to  him. 

I  was  ashamed  to  say  how  afraid  I  grew.  The  Shape 
answered  my  unspoken  thought. 

"  There's  ladies  goes  down  every  day.  There's  no 
danger,  —  not  the  least,"  he  said. 

"  Ye  wouldn't  miss  it,  not  for  any  thing." 

The  bucket  came  up.  It  was  swung  off  to  one  side 
of  the  trap-door.  It  was  an  extra-sized  water-pail,  with 
high  sides,  —  sides  coming  up  just  above  the  knees  of 
them  who  stood  in  it.  It  could  hold  just  two,  —  no 
more.  It  was  necessary  to  stand  facing  in  a  particular 
way  to  prevent  its  swinging  round  and  round.  By  an 
iron  hook  from  the  centre  of  the  handle  it  was  sus- 
pended over  the  dark  aperture.  It  was  raised  and 
lowered  by  the  steam-engine. 

"'  Ready  ? "  said  the  Shape  who  stood  with  his  hand 
on  the  engine. 

"  All  ready,"  replied  the  Shape  who  stood  with  one 
hand  on  the  edge  of  our  bucket. 

"  Now,  keep  cooL     Don't  mind  the  bucket's  swinging. 

I'll  be 


GEORGETOWN,  ETC.  297 

down  there  before  you  are.  He'll  let  you  down  slow." 
And  the  friendly  Shape  vanished  in  the  gloom. 

It  was  odd  how  much  it  felt  like  being  lowered  by 
the  hair  of  one's  head,  the  going  down  in  that  bucket. 
It  is  odd  how  very  Httle  consciousness  one  has  of  any 
thing  solid  under  one's  feet,  standing  in  such  buckets 
under  such  circumstances.  It  is  odder  still  what  a  com- 
fort there  is  in  a  bit  of  hghted  candle  in  this  sort  of 
place.  All  that  the  candle  showed  me  was  the  slanting- 
wooden  wall,  against  which  we  bumped  with  great  force 
every  now  and  then.  Why  the  sight  of  this  should 
(have  been  reassuring  it  is  impossible  to  tell ;  but,  during 
the  hour  —  three  minutes  long  —  which  we  passed  in 
that  descending,  swinging,  twisting,  bumping  bucket  I 
fixed  my  eyes  on  that  candle-flame  as  earnestly  as  if  it 
had  been  a  hght-house,  and  I  a  sailor  steering  to  shore 
by  its  guidance. 

"  All  right,  ma'am.  You  didn't  mind  it  much,  did 
you  ? "  came  suddenly  from  the  darkness,  and  a  pair  of 
strong  hands  laid  violent  hold  on  the  bucket  edge,  and, 
resting  it  firm  on  a  wet  and  stony  ground,  helped  us  out. 
This  was  the  nethermost  gallery  of  the  mine.  We  were 
five  hundred  feet  down  in  the  earth  and  there  were  five 
galleries  above  our  heads.  We  followed  the  friendly 
Shape  over  rocks,  piles  of  ore,  past  mouths  of  pits,  and 
through  dripping  water,  to  the  end  of  the  gallery,  where 
we  found  a  party  of  miners  drilling  and  picking.  Here 
and  there  we  saw  long,  glistening  veins  of  the  precious 
ore  in  the  walls  over  head.  It  seemed  to  run  capri- 
ciously, branching  now  to  right,  now  to  left.  Here  and 
there  we  came  to  dark  openings  in  the  walls,  through 
which  our  guide  would  call  to  men  at  work  above  us. 
Their  voices  reverberated  in  the  heavy  gloom  and 
sounded  preternaturally  loud. 

The  place  grew  more  and  more  weird  and  awesome 
at  every  step.  The  faces  of  the  miners  we  met  seemed 
to  grow  more  and  more  unhuman,  less  and  less  friendly. 
I  was  glad  when  we  began  to  retrace  our  steps  ;  and 
the  bucket,  swinging  in  mid-air,  looked  like  a  welcome 
escape,   a  comforting  link  between  us  and  the   outer 


298  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

world.  Whether  bucket,  shaft,  steam-engine,  or  we 
were  in  fault  I  do  not  know  ;  but  the  upward  journey 
was  a  terrible  one.  The  bucket  swung  violently, — 
almost  round  and  round  ;  our  clothes  had  not  been 
carefully  secured,  and  they  were  caught  between  the 
bucket  and  the  shaft-sides  and  wrenchfed  and  twisted  ; 
and,  to  add  to  the  horror,  our  candle  went  out.  No 
words  were  spoken  in  that  bucket  during  those  minutes  ; 
they  were  minutes  not  to  be  forgotten.  Still  the  guide 
was  right :  we  would  not  "  have  missed  it  for  any 
thing." 

When  we  offered  our  guide  money,  he  said :  "  No, 
thank  you.  I  don't  take  any  money  for  myself  ;  but,  if 
you'll  read  that  notice,"  —  pointing  to  a  written  paper 
on  the  office  wall,  —  "perhaps  you'll  give  us  something 
for  our  reading-room."  This  paper  stated  that  the 
miners  were  trying  to  collect  money  enough  to  build  a 
small  room,  where  they  might  have  books  and  papers 
and  perhaps  now  and  then  a  lecture.  They  had  sub- 
scribed among  themselves  nearly  three  hundred  dollars. 

"You  see,"  said  our  guide,  ''if  we  had  some  such 
place  as  that,  then  the  boys  wouldn't  go  down  to  the 
town  evenings  and  Sundays  and  get  drunk.  When  a 
fellow's  worked  in  a  mine  all  day  he's  got  to  have  some- 
thing." 

How  the  thought  struck  home  to  our  hearts  at  that 
minute.  We  had  been  in  that  airless,  sunless  cavern 
only  one  short  half  hour  ;  yet  the  blue  sky,  the  Hght, 
the  breeze,  the  space  already  seemed  to  us  unreal.  We 
were  dazzled,  bewildered.  What  must  be  the  effect  of 
weeks  and  months  and  years  of  such  life  ? 

"  Indeed,  we  will  give  you  all  the  help  we  can,"  we 
said;  "and,  what  is  more,  we  will  ask  everybody  we 
know  to  send  you  some  papers  or  books." 

Here  is  the  guide's  address  : 

Henry  F.  Lampshire, 

Foreman  of  the  "  Terrible  Mine," 
Georgetown, 

Colorado. 


GEORGETOWN,  ETC.  299 

From  Georgetown  down  to  Idaho  at  sunset  is  more 
beautiful  even  than  from  Idaho  up  to  Georgetown  of  a 
morning. 

Full  speed  ;  sunlight  gone  from  the  left-hand  wall, 
broad  gold  bands  of  it  on  the  right ;  now  and  then  a 
rift  or  canyon  opening  suddenly  to  the  west  and  letting 
in  a  full  flood  of  light,  making  it  sunny  in  a  second, 
afternoon,  when  the  second  before  it  had  been  wellnigh 
sombre  twihght  and  the  second  after  it  will  be  sombre 
twilight  again  ;  red,  gray,  and  white  clouds  settling 
down  in  fleecy  masses  upon  the  snowy  mountain  towers 
of  the  gateway  ot  the  valley,  —  this  is  sunset  between 
Georgetown  and  Idaho.  And  to  us  there  came  also  a 
wayside  greeting  more  beautiful  than  the  clouds,  bluer 
than  the  sky,  and  gladder  than  the  sun,  —  only  a  flower, 
one  flower  !  But  it  was  the  Rocky  Mountain  columbine. 
—  peerless  among  columbines,  wondrous  among  flowers. 
Waving  at  top  of  a  stem  two  feet  high,  surrounded  bj 
buds  full  two  inches  and  a  half  in  diameter,  the  innej 
petals  stainless  white,  the  outer  ones  brilJi^int  blu^i,  ? 
sheaf  of  golden-anthered  stamens  in  the  centre,  —  there 
it  stood,  pure,  joyous,  stately,  regal.  We  gared  iri 
speechless  dehght  into  its  face.  There  was  2  reriaift 
solemnity  in  its  beauty. 

"  That's  the  gladdest  flower  I  ever  saw,"  were  thf 
first  words  spoken,  and  the  face  of  the  man  who  said 
them  glowed. 

Oh  !  wondrous  power  of  a  fragile  thing,  born  for  a 
single  day  of  a  single  summer  !  I  think  that  the  thing 
I  shall  longest  remember  and  always  most  vividly  see  Oi 
that  whole  trip  in  the  Colorado  canyons  will  be  that 
fearless,  stainless,  -joyful,  regnant  blossom,  and  mj 
friend's  tribute  of  look,  of  tone,  when  he  said,  "  Thj 
gladdest  flower  I  ever  saw." 


300  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 


BOWLDER    CANYON. 

CANYONS  are  known  of  their  lovers.  To  their 
lovers  they  reveal  themselves ;  to  their  lovers' 
eyes  they  are  no  more  alike  than  fair  women  are  alike 
in  the  eyes  of  their  worshippers. 

Also  there  is  a  rio;ht  way  to  take  a  canyon,  as  there  is 
to  take  a  person.  One  must  not  be  driven  through,  — 
no,  not  if  a  broad  turnpike  ran  its  whole  length.  Only 
by  slow  and  humble  toiling  on  foot  can  one  see  its 
beauties.  Another  is  made  for  a  swift  and  royal  dash 
on  wheels,  or  on  horses'  backs;  as  distinctly  "set"  to 
an  allegro  movement  as  was  ever  a  joyous  outburst  of 
the  soul  of  Beethoven  or  Mozart.  Harmonies  obey  one 
law  all  Nature  through,  and  when  we  learn  and  study 
Nature,  as  we  study  and  love  art,  we  shall  know  better 
how  to  "keep  time  "  with  her,  and  our  voices  will  not  be 
out  of  tune  so  often.  We  shall  not  pipe  to  her  at  high 
noon  and  expect  her  to  dance,  which  is  only  a  fantastic 
way  of  saying  that,  going  out  at  midday  to  look  atmoun 
tain  ranges,  we  shall  not  pretend  to  know  them  ;  that  w 
shall  visit  meadows  of  a  morning,  and  not  be  seen  drivin^g 
eastward  at  sunset ;  and  that,  if  we  live  in  Colorado,  we 
shall  take  our  canyons  right  end  foremost  and  be  abso- 
lutely certain  which  way  they  were  meant  to  be  read. 

The  more  canyons  one  sees,  the  more  this  truth  sinks 
into  one's  heart,  the  more  vividly  one  reahzes  the  intense 
individuality  of  each  canyon.  Carried  blindfold  into 
any  one  of  them  and  set  down  midway,  one  knowing 
them  could  never  mistake  or  be  in  doubt.  But  it  is  hard 
to  find  words  in  which  these  differences  shall  be  distinctly 
set   forth,    harder   even  than  it  is  to  tell  just   how  one 


BOiVLDER    CAA^YON.  301 

human  voice  differs  from  another  ;  yet  who  ever  mis- 
took a  voice  he  knew  ? 

Bowlder  Canyon  is  one  of  the  "allegro"  movements. 
It  is  sixteen  miles  long  and  one  should  ride  swiftly 
down  it,  —  race,  as  it  were,  with  the  creek,  which  has 
never  yet  drawn  a  long  breath  since  first  it  plunged  into 
the  gorge.  To  see  Bowlder  Canyon  aright,  therefore, 
one  must  enter  it  from  the  Nederlands  Meadows,  at  its 
upper  mouth ;  and  to  reach  the  Nederlands  Meadows 
from  Denver  one  must  go  by  rail  up  the  Clear  Creek 
Canyon  (hardly  less  beautiful  than  Bowlder  Canyon  it- 
self) and  drive  across  from  Central  City  to  Nederlands. 
The  road  lies  through  tracts  of  pines  and  over  great 
ridges,  grand  in  their  lonehness.  From  every  ridge  is  a 
new  vfew  of  the  "Snowy  Range,"  to  the  west  and  north. 
In  strong  sunlight  and  shadow  these  myriads  of  snow- 
peaks,  relieved  against  the  blue  sky,  are  of  such  bril- 
liant and  changing  colors  that  it  must  be  a  very  dull 
soul  indeed  that  could  look  on  them  without  thinking  of 
many-colored  jewels.  On  the  day  that  I  saw  this  view, 
James's  Peak  was  covered  with  snow  and  stood  in  full 
light.  Its  sharp  pyramidal  lines  looked  as  fine  cut  and 
hard  as  if  the  mountain  had  but  just  been  hewn  from 
alabaster.  A  little  to  the  north.  Long's  Peak,  which  is 
cleft  into  two  peaks,  was  half  in  shadow  and  half  in  sun. 
The  peak  in  the  shadow  was  as  dark  a  blue  as  blue  can  be 
and  not  be  black ;  and  the  peak  in  the  sun  was  distinctly 
and  wholly  pink,  —  a  rosy  pink,  with  an  opaline  qualit} 
in  the  tint.  The  mountain  did  not  look  Hke  a  moun- 
tain. The  colors  were  so  intense  that  the  line  where 
they  joined  was  as  plainly  marked  to  our  sight  as  If  it 
had  been  on  a  map  in  our  hands  ;  but  the  mountain  was 
twenty  miles  away. 

Midway  between  Central  City  and  Nederlands  is  a 
^;:ttlement,  called  Rawhnsville,  which  ought  to  be  called 
Oasis  Town.  Between  two  bare  and  brown  hill-ridges, 
a  bit  of  meadow  New  England  might  own,  and  an  amber 
and  white  trout-stream  foaming  through  it.  The  mea- 
dow seemed  fairly  to  be  bursting  into  blade  and  leaf  as 


302  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

we  drove  in,  so  wondrous  and  so  surprising  green  was 
it.  A  dusty  brown  road  on  its  edge  leads  westward  up 
the  green  vista.  A  gate  shuts  it  off  from  the  highway. 
It  is  the  road  into  Colorado's  beautiful  mountain  valley, 
the  Middle  Park.  From  Rawlins  to  Nederlands  only 
ridges  and  hills  and  their  connecting  and  interlocking 
spurs,  pines,  and  firs,  and  everywhere  loneliness  and 
silence.  "  In"  the  mountains  is  a  phrase  we  have  come 
to  use  carelessly  when  we  mean  among  them.  But  it  is  a 
significant  thing  that  we  say  "in"  and  do  not  say 
*' among."  Among  the  Rocky  Mountains  it  is  especially 
significant.  Hour  by  hour  one  sinks  and  rises  and  climbs 
and  descends  in  labyrinths  of  wedged  hills.  Each  hour 
you  are  hemmed  in  by  a  new  circle  of  peaks,  among  which 
DO  visible  outlet  appears  ;  and  each  hour  you  escape, 
mount  to  a  new  level,  and  are  again  circled  by  a  different 
and  more  glorious  horizon.  You  come  to  feel  that  you 
yourself  are.  as  it  were,  a  member  of  the  mountain  race  ; 
the  sky  is  the  family  roof,  and  you  and  they  are  at  home 
together  under  it.  This  it  is  to  be  "  in  the  mountains." 
Nederlands  is  a  dismal  little  mining  town, — only  a 
handful  of  small  houses  and  smelting  mills.  Bowlder 
Creek  comes  dashing  through  it,  foaming  white  to  the 
very  edge  of  the  grimy  street,  reclaiming  the  land  from 
dust  and  stones  and  making  it  soft  and  green  for  many 
an  acre.  As  you  drive  eastward  down  this  meadow, 
following  but  never  overtaking  the  creek,  the  mouth  ot 
Bowlder  Canyon  stands  full  in  sight.  Its  gray  stone 
walls  rise  up,  fortresslike,  from  the  meadow-sward, — 
the  left-hand  wall  bare  and  gray;  the  right-hand  one 
thick  set  with  firs  from  base  to  top.  It  is  a  picture  of 
vivid  contrasts,  —  the  green  meadow,  with  ranks  upon 
ranks  of  yellow  and  red  willow  bushes  making  belts  ot 
bright  color  upon  it ;  between  the  yellows  and  reds, 
gleams  of  white  foam  flashing ;  and  beyond,  the  high 
buttress  fronts  of  the  canyon  mouth,  adorned  with 
evergreens,  as  for  a  triumph.  One  step  past  this  gate 
and  you  are  in  a  second  meadow.  A  tiny  spot,  but 
green  as  the  other,  walled  to  the  sky  with  gray  stone 


BOWLDER   CANYON.  303 

and  fir  trees,  dainty  and  soft  under  foot,  lighted  by  the 
flashing  water  and  gay  with  flowers.  Here  spreads  a 
gigantic  cedar  tree,  broad  like  a  banyan,  with  gnarled 
roots,  that  make  seats,  and  low  boughs,  that  make  a 
good  roof,  as  who  should  know  better  than  we  who  sat 
composedly  lunching  under  them  while  a  shower  of  rain 
rattled  away  over  our  heads  and  did  not  wet  us.  It 
gathered  blacker  and  blacker,  however,  and  the  canyon 
darkened  fast,  as  a  httle  room  darkens  when  candles 
burn  down.  There  is  none  too  much  light  at  best  .n  a 
narrow,  rift  between  rocks  which  are  hundreds  of  feet 
high.  When  its  strip  of  sky  canopy  turns  black  as  ink 
and  rain  falls  in  white  sheets,  filling  it  in,  day  seems 
day  no  longer.  Ahead  of  the  storm,  we  dashed  down 
the  canyon.  Looking  back,  we  could  see  it  following  us 
in  a  strange  mist  wall,  which  advanced  as  solid-fronted 
and  steady  and  swift  as  an  army.  The  noises  of  battle 
were  not  wanting  either,  for  the  wind  roared  and  shrieked, 
the  trees  gave  out  great  sobbing  sounds  as  they  bent  in 
the  gale,  and  overhead  the  thunder  crashed  and  echoed, 
sharp  lightning  leaped  from  side  to  side,  seeming  a  fiery 
network  over  our  heads.  It  was  grand  ;  but  it  was  not 
safe,  and  we  were  glad  to  scramble,  all  dripping,  into  a 
deserted  log  cabin.  The  rain  came  into  the  open  chim- 
ney-hole in  the  roof  and  fell  in  pitiless  satire  on  the 
blackened  hearthstone,  where  no  fire  could  be.  But 
the  old  bunks  were  dry  ;  and  on  the  edges  of  these  we 
sat  and  peered  out  into  the  canyon.  What  a  very 
carnival  of  waters  it  was !  The  creek  leaped  and 
danced  as  if  it  were  mad  with  joy,  flinging  itself  upward 
to  meet  the  torrents  of  rain  half  way.  All  the  green 
things  leaped  and  danced  also,  swaying  their  supple 
bodies  in  rhythmic  time  to  the  tempest.  The  fir-trees 
seemed  as  lithe  as  the  blades  of  grass,  and  the  butter- 
cups and  daisies  bowed  down  to  the  ground  and  up  to 
their  full  height  —  down  and  up  and  down  and  up  —  and 
never  a  stem  of  them  all  broke  in  this  storm,  in  which  it 
was  not  safe  for  us  to  be  out. 
the  weak  things  of  the  earth  than  the  mighty. 


304  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

In  the  thickest  of  the  storm  an  old  man  came  slowly 
sauntering  up  the  road.  Long,  white  beard  dripping 
with  water  ;  old  leather  trowsers  running  with  water  ; 
old  battered  hat  streaming  water,  as  if  it  were  a  pail  he 
had  just  put  on,  full  of  water,  —  he  looked  as  if  he 
might  have  had  something  to  do  with  the  storm.  See- 
ing us,  he  entered  the  cabin,  and,  with  a  reticent  nod, 
sat  down  on  the  three-legged  chair.  It  was  to  see  us 
that  he  came  in  ;  by  no  means  to  escape  the  storm. 
Yet  he  seemed  in  no  wise  disposed  to  talk.  What  use 
he  did  make  of  us,  he  knows,  no  doubt ;  it  was  not  ap- 
parent. His  steady,  reflective  gaze  was  embarrassing. 
He  owned  the  htde  log  cabin  we  had  noticed  at  the 
entrance  of  the  canyon.  It  stood  in  a  clump  of  fir- 
trees,  on  a  high  bank  a  few  rods  from  the  creek.  The 
vegetable  garden  looked  flourishing,  and  we  had  said  as 
we  passed,  "  That  is  a  spot  where  a  king  might  spend 
the  summer  and  raise  his  own  peas."  The  king  was 
before  us.  His  last  kingdom  had  been  in  Wisconsin, 
and  he  was  "  a-fixin'  up  this  place  to  bring  his  family 
out  in  the  fall.  Didn't  know  as  they'd  hke  it.  Calk'lated 
they'd  think  'twas  kind  o'  lonesome." 

Long  before  we  could  see  that  the  storm  had  lessened 
by  a  drop,  he  remarked  that  the  "rain  wuz  about  done," 
shouldered  his  heavy  axe,  picked  up  his  flask  bottle, 
and,  with  the  same  indirect  nod  with  which  he  had 
sauntered  in,  sauntered  out  again  and  .strolled  away. 
He  looked  more  actual  and  human  out  in  the  rain  than 
he  had  in  the  cabin. 

He  was  right.  The  rain  was  "about  done."  In  the 
twinkhng  of  an  eye  the  clouds  broke  away,  the  blue  sky 
shone  out,  the  sun  blazed  in  on  the  wet  tree-tops  and 
turned  every  leaf,  every  pine-needle,  to  a  fretwork  of 
diamonds.  A  bird,  whose  voice  seemed  to  fall  from  the 
very  sky,  called  out,  "  Tweep  !  "  "  Tweep  !  "  in  a  fine, 
high  note,  like  the  first  violin  notes  before  an  orchestra 
begins  to  play  ;  and  after  him  other  birds  sang  out,  and 
the  joint  svmphony  of  sight  and  sound  burst  into  its 
fullest. 


BOWLDER   CANYON.  305 

Still  twelve  miles  down  the  canyon,  and  this  is  the 
way  they  ran,  —  if  I  tell  it  breathless,  it  is  because  I  try 
to  tell  it  true,  and  if  I  could  tell  it  really  true,  the  words 
would  leap  and  break  into  foam  like  the  creek,  — this  is 
the  way  the  miles  ran  :  — 

Now  between  walls  made  of  piled  bowlders,  piled  as 
if  storms  had  hurled  them  where  they  hung,  — bowlders 
poised,  and  bowlders  wedged,  and  bowlders  half  welded 
together ;  with  great  fir-trees  crowded  in  among  them, 
shooting  out  of  crevices  like  spears  thrust  through 
from  underneath  ;  clasping  gnarled  roots  like  anchors 
round  edges  of  precipices. 

Now  a  high  pyramid  of  rock,  only  a  few  rods  ahead, 
walled  the  way,  and  we  said,  "  Where  do  we  and  the 
creek  go  ?  Surely,  to  the  left."  No  ;  to  the  right,  and 
under  rather  than  around  the  rock.  Like  a  huge  sound- 
ing-board, it  ran  out  above  our  heads,  its  seams  like 
rafters  and  its  rifts  hke  groined  archways,  mossy  with 
age  and  now  shining  with  the  dripping  water.  We  and 
©ur  carriage  and  our  horses  could  have  been  safely 
housed  under  it,  with  room  to  spare. 

Round  this,  sharply  to  the  left,  and  another  just  such 
wall  juts  out  on  the  right ;  and  between  the  two  we 
cross  the  foaming  creek  on  a  narrow  bridge. 

Fir-trees  high  up  on  the  sides  ;  fir-trees  walling  the 
topmost  edge  ;  fir-trees  standing  with  their  roots  in  the 
water  ;  fir-trees  bent  out  across  the  stream,  as  if  they 
had  sought  to  clasp  hands, —  the  air  itself  seemed  of  a 
verdurous  color,  from  their  masses  of  solemn  dark 
green. 

Now  through  wider  spaces,  where  one  or  other  of  the 
walls  recedes,  and  the  broader  slopes  are  green  as 
meadows.  Now  through  narrow  passes,  where  the 
walls  are  straight  hewn,  and  the  narrow  strip  of  sky 
overhead  is  like  a  blue  line  drawn  on  gray,  so  closely 
the  rocks  approach  each  other.  In  these  rock- walls  are 
ravines,  packed  full  of  fir-trees.  They  look  only  hke 
fissures  filled  with  bushes.  Mid-way  up  these  rock- 
walls  are  jutting  projections  which  look  like  mere 
20 


3o6  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

ledges.  They  are  broad  plateaus  on  which  forests 
grow. 

Meantime  the  creek  never  slackens.  Amber  and 
white  and  black  in  the  arrested  spaces,  it  whirls  under 
the  bridges  and  round  the  corners,  doubles  on  itself, 
leaps  over  and  high  above  a  hundred  rocks  in  a  rod, 
breaks  into  sheafs  and  showers  of  spray,  foams  and 
shines  and  twinkles  and  glistens  ;  and  if  there  be  any 
other  thing  which  water  at  its  swiftest  and  sunniest  can 
do,  that  it  does  also,  even  to  jumping  rope  with  rain- 
bows. 

And  I  must  not  forget  that  there  are  gardens  all  the 
way  down.  In  the  bends  of  the  creek,  round  the  but- 
ments  of  the  bridges,  in  sheltered  nooks  under  the 
overhanging  rocks,  wherever  there  can  be  a  few  feet  of 
ground,  there  spring  all  manner  of  flowers,  —  white 
spiraeas  and  pink  roses  and  blue  larkspur,  and  masses 
of   yellow  for  setting. 

Sixteen  miles,  such  miles  as  these,  and  never  once 
the  creek  slackens !  Said  I  not  well  that  it  was  an 
allegro  movement  ?  And  is  one  not  to  be  forgiven  who 
tells  it  breathlessly,  with  the  marvellous  Colorado  air 
quickening  his  veins  ? 

Suddenly,  at  the  last,  while  the  canyon  walls  are  still 
high  and  the  creek  still  foams,  the  road  turns  a  corner, 
and  lo  !  there  he  the  plains  in  full  sight,  —  a  belt  of 
serene,  dark,  unfathomable  blue.  In  a  few  moments 
you  come  out  upon  a  foothill,  and  under  a  dome  of  sky 
which  seems  immeasurably  wide  after  the  narrow  line 
which  roofed  the  canyon. 

Here  lies  the  little  town  of  Bowlder,  at  the  mouth  of 
the  pass.  It  is  fast  growing  rich  and  big  by  the  out- 
coming  and  ingoing  from  the  mining  region.  But  I 
hold  the  Bowlder  people  lucky,  not  in  that  gold  and  sil- 
ver are  brought  down  into  their  streets  every  day,  but 
that  they  can  walk  of  an  afternoon  up  into  Bowlder 
Canyon. 


TllK   CRADLE   OF  PEACE.  307 


THE     CRADLE     OF     PEACE. 

ONLY  half  of  this  name  is  my  own.  I  wish  I  could 
honestly  claim  the  whole  ;  but  the  sweetest  word 
in  it  was  the  thought  of  the  man  who  had  known  and 
loved  the  spot  years  before  I  saw  it.  I,  coming  later 
and  perhaps  more  tired,  saw  that  the  air  of  the  land  was 
peace  ;  but  all  honor  to  him  who  first  saw  and  said  that 
it  lay  in  the  shape  of  a  cradle.  Men  going  before  had 
called  it  a  park  ;  and  one  who  for  some  years  fed  herds 
on  its  meadows,  had  given  it  his  own  name,  "  Bergun." 
By  this  name  alone  it  will  be  found  recorded  in  the 
books  which  guide  travellers  ;  but  much  I  mistake  if 
any  traveller,  having  once  slept  and  waked  in  it,  will 
from  that  day  call  it  by  any  other  name  than  ours,  — 
"The  Cradle  of   Peace." 

A  giant  cradle,  indeed, — nine  miles  long  and  three 
wide  ;  Pike's  Peak  for  its  foot  and  a  range  of  battle- 
mented  mountains  for  its  head  ;  lying,  as  it  should,  due 
north  and  south,  with  high  sides  sloping  up  to  the  east 
and  up  to  the  west  to  meet  the  gracious  canopy  of  sky. 

In  the  old,  mysterious  days  of  which  men  think  they 
know,  when  every  thing  was  something  quite  different 
from  what  it  is  to-day,  all  these  Rocky  Mountain  parks 
were  lakes,  it  is  said. 

Looking  down  on  and  into  the  Cradle  of  Peace  from 
the  high  hills  of  its  sides,  one  easily  believes  this,  but 
says  to  himself  that  the  beauty  of  the  primeval  lake 
was  only  the  beauty  of  a  promise.  To-day  is  the  fulfil- 
ment. They  are  born  by  the  baptism  of  water,  —  this 
meadow,  these  grassy  slopes,  these  pine  forests  ;  it  was 
*hat  they  might  be,  that  the  lake  was  set  and  ebbed 
iway. 


3o8  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

All  that  is  left  of  it  now  is  a  tiny,  nameless  creek, 
which  zigzags  along  in  the  meadow-bottom,  revealed  by 
the  very  willows  and  alders  it  has  lifted  to  hide  itself  ; 
revealed  also  by  the  bright  green  of  the  rich  growths 
on  either  hand  ;  just  water  enough  in  the  creek  to  make 
the  cradle  safe  and  prosperous  for  a  home  ;  just  green 
er.ough  in  the  meadow  strip  to  light  up  the  soft  brown 
and  yellow  slopes  above,  and  the  dark  pines  still  further 
above,  into  an  enchanting  picture.  This  is  what  the 
ancient  lake  does  for  the  park  to-day,  giving  it  a  secret 
of  vitahty  and  an  inherited  fairness,  as  does  some  un- 
known and  unthanked  old  ancestor  far  back  in  the  line 
of  a  noble  house. 

I  rested  three  days  in  the  Cradle  of  Peace.  Each 
moment  of  each  day  was  brimful  of  delights  to  sense 
and  soul ;  each  hour  has  left  me  a  vivid  picture,  yet 
words  come  slow  as  I  seek  to  set  those  pictures  in 
frames  of  speech.  Only  he  who  sees  can  ever  know 
how  surpassingly  beautiful  is  this  mountain-walled, 
pine-walled  valley,  swung  in  the  air. 

On  its  western  side  the  slopes  rise  gently  to  the 
forest-hne.  They  are  grass-grown, — chiefly  with  the 
"  tuft-grass,"  which  is  in  July  silvery  white,  and  curled 
in  thick  mats  at  the  base,  with  a  few  slender,  brown 
stalks  rising  three  or  four  inches  high.  This  gives  to 
the  whole  surface  a  uniform  tint  of  indescribable  soft- 
ness, as  if  a  miraculous  hoar-frost  had  fallen,  of  a  pale, 
brownish-yellow.  Sometimes  these  slopes  are  broken 
abruptly  by  sandy  cliffs, —  their  fronts  bright  red,  of 
the  red  sandstone  color,  and  their  lines  curving  as  only 
water-worn  cliffs  can  curve.  Looking  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  park,  the  forest-line  on  these  western 
slopes  seems  nearly  straight  and  unbroken.  Driving 
along  it,  one  finds  that  it  is  a  series  of  promontories  of 
pines,  making  out  into  the  smooth,  grassy  level ;  or, 
perhaps  one  ought  the  rather  to  say,  remembering  the 
days  of  the  ancient  lake,  that  the  smooth,  grassy  level 
makes  up  in  inlets  into  the  forest.  Be  it  called  inlet  of 
smooth,  grassy   surface,   or  promontory  of  pine,  inlet 


THE   CRADLE   OF   PEACE.  309 

and  promontory  together  make,  along  the  whole  western 
side  of  the  park,  a  succession  of  sunny-centred,  pine- 
shadowed,  miniature  half-parks  of  wonderful  beauty. 
They  round  into  the  forest-like  coves,  they  open  out  on 
the  great  park  like  mouths  of  rivers.  After  all,  is  it 
the  spell  of  the  ancient  lake,  that  the  water  must  still 
lend  all  the  shapes  whose  names  will  fit  to  the  shapes 
of  these  nooks  in  the  western  forest-edge  of  the  Cradle 
of  Peace  ?  Some  of  them,  as  I  said,  are  narrow,  and 
round  into  the  forest  like  coves  ;  some  of  them  are 
acres  broad,  and  have  in  their  centres  a  thread  of  brook, 
tinkling  slowly  down  under  a  green  meadow  cover  to 
the  creek  below.  In  some  of  them  stand,  lonely,  bare, 
inexphcable,  great  rocks  of  red  sandstone,  grooved  and 
rounded  and  hollowed  and  smoothed,  poised  one  above 
another,  as  if  only  yesterday  the  waves  had  lodged 
them  there  ;  or  standing  erect,  solitary,  like  single  pil- 
lars of  temples  swept  away.  Nothing  could  be  more 
weird  than  these  huge,  strange-shaped  rocks,  standing 
isolated  in  the  pine  forests  ;  not  a  small  stone,  not  a 
tiny  pebble  at  their  base,  —  only  the  smooth,  grassy 
spaces  and  the  silent  forest  about  them.  No  ruin  I 
have  ever  seen  of  cities  of  men's  building  seemed  so 
solemn,  so  mysterious,  so  significant  of  centuries.  On 
the  eastern  side  of  the  park,  the  grassy  slopes  are  very 
soon  broken  up  into  hills.  First  low,  rounding  foot- 
hills, whose  hues  are  only  undulations  ;  next  higher 
hills  and  steeper,  but  still  gentle  of  curve,  and  linked 
each  to  each  by  soft,  grass -grown  hollows  :  lastly  sharp, 
rocky  peaks,  separated  by  deep  and  difficult  ravines. 
Over  all  these  hills  and  to  the  top  of  the  highest  peaks 
grow  the  same  stately  pines  which  make  the  forest-walls 
of  the  western  side  of  the  park.  The  ground  is  cov- 
ered many  layers  thick  with  the  pine-needles,  and  in  a 
sunny  forenoon  the  air  is  almost  overpowerirgly  spicy 
with  the  pine  fragrance.  Rambling  south  or  north,  one 
goes  from  hill-top  to  hill-top  through  a  succession  of 
dells,  no  two  dells  alike  and  each  dell  hard  to  leave  ; 
some  sudden,  narrow,  with  sides  so  straight  that  one 


310  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

might  slip  swiftly  to  the  bottom  and  lie  as  in  a  ham- 
mock ;  some  broader  and  more  open,  but  still  with 
sides  so  straight  that,  dimbing  up  them,  one  sees  the 
blue  sky  brought  into  a  marvellously  close  horizon-hne 
on  the  upper  edge  ;  some  filled  full  of  young,  waving 
pines  ;  some  with  a  narrow,  water-worn  gully  in  the 
centre,  where  water  runs  in  spring,  and  in  summer 
bloom  white  spiraeas,  blue  and  purple  penstemons,  hare- 
bells, crowfoot,  and  the  huge  white  thistles,  beloved  of 
butterflies ;  some,  almost  the  most  beautiful  of  all, 
without  either  pines  or  flowers,  only  the  soft,  white  yel- 
low, and  brown  and  white  grasses,  with  here  and  there 
glossy  green  mats  of  kinnikinnick, — dainty,  sturdy,  in- 
defatigable kinnikinnick.  How  shall  kinnikinnick  be 
told  to  them  who  know  it  not  ?  To  a  New  Englander 
it  might  be  said  that  a  whortleberry-bush  changed  its 
mind  one  day  and  decided  to  be  a  vine,  with  leaves  as 
glossy  as  laurel,  bells  pink-striped  and  sweet  like  the 
arbutus,  and  berries  in  clusters  and  of  scarlet  instead  of 
black.  The  Indians  call  it  kinnikinnick,  and  smoke  it 
in  their  pipes.  White  men  call  it  bear-berry,  I  believe ; 
and  there  is  a  Latin  name  for  it,  no  doubt,  in  the  books. 
But  kinnikinnick  is  the  best,  —  dainty,  sturdy,  indefatiga- 
ble kinnikinnick,  green  and  glossy  all  the  year  round, 
lovely  at  Christmas  and  lovely  among  flowers  at  mid- 
summer, as  content  and  thrifty  on  bare,  rocky  hillsides 
as  in  grassy  nooks,  growing  in  long,  trailing  wreaths, 
five  feet  long,  or  in  tangled  mats,  five  feet  across,  as 
the  rock  or  the  valley  may  need,  and  living  bravely 
for  many  weeks  without  water,  to  make  a  house  beauti- 
ful. I  doubt  if  there  be  in  the  world  a  vine  I  should 
hold  so  precious,  indoors  and  out. 

Climbing  a  little  higher,  following  one  of  the  grassy 
hill-top  lines,  as  it  curves  into  the  forest,  you  come  here 
and  there  to  small  level  opens,  some  so  surrounded  by 
pines  that  you  see  no  vistas,  no  glimpses  of  the  park, 
no  distance,  —  only  a  grassy  field,  walled  high  with 
green  and  roofed  with  blue.  Some,  less  shut  in,  from 
which   you   look   off  in   all  directions   through  vistas 


THE   CRADLE   OF   PEACE.  311 

framed  by  yellow  pine  timbers,  —  now  a  vista  of  sky  and 
cloud,  now  a  distant  mountain,  now  a  bit  of  the  shining 
meadow  below.  A  step  to  right,  to  left,  the  vista  is 
changed  and  the  picture  new.  A  forenoon  flies  like  an 
hour  in  these  sunny  forest  chambers,  with  new  birds, 
new  insects,  new  sounds,  new  sights  on  every  hand. 
There  is  a  locust  in  these  woods  who  on  the  wing  is 
yellow  as  a  butterfly,  on  the  ground  is  mottled  brown 
and  white,  like  a  rattlesnake.  His  rattle  is  like  casta- 
nets, and  so  loud  that  when  he  springs  it  suddenly 
under  your  feet  you  start  as  if  you  had  stumbled  over 
"bones  "  at  a  negro  concert.  There  are  golden-winged 
woodpeckers  and  black  and  white  woodpeckers,  and 
yellow  birds,  and  orioles,  and  multitudes  of  sparrows  ; 
not  singly  and  far  apart,  like  the  terrified  survivors  in 
civilized  woods,  but  in  numbers,  at  ease  and  uncon- 
cerned, at  home  in  their  wilderness.  There  are  tiny 
sparrows,  no  larger  than  the  rice-birds  we  see  in  cages. 
These  fly  in  flocks  and  spend  hours  at  a  time  in  one 
tree.  I  watched  a  pine-tree  full  of  them  one  morning. 
There  must  have  been  dozens  ;  yet  never  was  there 
even  one  still  for  one  second.  The  tree  itself  seemed 
all  a-flutter,  —  dusky  backs,  snowy  breasts,  green  pine- 
needles,  and  yellow  branches  in  a  swift  kaleidoscope  of 
shifting  shape  and  color. 

Now  and  then  a  great  hawk  soars  out  noiselessly  from 
a  tree-top  near  by.  and,  circling  a  few  times  overhead, 
sinks  back  again  into  the  pines,  so  close  to  you  that 
you  fancy  you  hear  the  branches  open  with  a  soft  plash 
like  waves.  Squirrels  dart  back  and  forth,  not  even 
looking  at  you,  and  run  races  and  fight  fights  in  the 
branches  of  a  fallen  pine,  almost  within  your  hand's 
reach.  When  the  yellow  pine  dies  and  stands  stil! 
erect,  it  is  a  weird  thing  to  see.  It  looks  like  a  ship's 
mast,  with  huge  grape-vine  tangles  fastened  to  it  at 
right  angles.  If  it  falls,  it  looks  still  ghasther,  —  like 
some  giant  lizard,  its  body  stiffened  straight  in  death 
and  its  myriad  hmbs  convulsed  and  cramped  in  agony. 
My  thoughts  linger  on  these  memories   of  the  sounds 


312  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

and  sights  of  those  sunny  out-door  chambers,  as  mj 
feet  lingered,  walking  through  them.  But  there  are 
higher  levels  yet  and  an  outlook  to  come  ;  an  outlook 
all  the  more  beautiful,  all  the  more  thrilling,  because 
you  reach  it  by  the  way  of  the  dells  and  the  walled 
spaces  and  the  near  horizons  of  the  wooded  foot-hills. 

Following  the  line  of  some  tiny  brook,  which  has 
ambushed  in  willows  and  alders,  you  will  come  up  and 
out  among  the  higher  peaks,  the  deep  ravines.  It  is 
hard  scrambling,  but  well  worth  while.  Each  lift  to  a 
new  ridge-line  opens  up  more  and  more,  until,  standing 
finally  on  the  third  or  fourth  terrace  level,  you  can  look 
fairly  over  to  the  west  and  up  to  the  north  and  down 
into  the  park.  Now  you  see  to  perfection  the  sunny 
inlet  spaces  in  the  forest  on  the  western  slope,  the  ten- 
der outreaching  promontories  of  pines,  and  the  briglit- 
tinted  belts  and  winding  Hues  of  green  crops  in  the 
meadow  centre.  Now  you  see  the  exquisite  contour  of 
the  up-curving  sides,  east  and  west,  and  the  majestic 
height  of  the  mountains,  north  and  south,  which  form 
the  cradle. 

You  see  also  still  further  to  the  west,  making  a  vivid 
break  of  hght  in  the  wilderness  of  dark  pines,  another 
park,  higher  than  this  and  of  not  half  its  size.  Few 
men  have  trod  there,  and  no  man  may  dwell  in  its  sweet 
seclusion,  for  it  has  no  water.  Lonely  and  safe  for  ever 
it  hes  ;  its  only  mission  to  make  a  perpetual  golden 
gleam  in  the  picture  from  the  upper  eastern  wall  of  the 
Cradle  of  Peace. 

Midway  in  the  forest  rises  a  huge  mountain  of  rock, 
of  most  marvellous  shape.  Turret,  roof,  wall,  it  stands 
a  gigantic  abbey,  and  the  few  pines  which  grow  on  its 
stony  sides  look  merely  like  the  ivy  cHnging  to  a  ruin. 
It  is  a  startlingly  comic  thing  to  be  told  that  this  moun- 
tain is  called  Sugar  Loaf;  but  this  is  its  name,  and  it 
is  said  that,  seen  from  the  south  country,  the  shape 
makes  the  name  true.  To  one  seeing  it  only  from  the 
east  this  seems  incredible,  and  casts  the  fable  of  the 
gold  and  silver  shield  into  the  shade. 


THE   CRADLE   OF  PEACE.  313 

The  western  horizon  is  broken  by  only  one  peak, 
which  Hes  sharp  cut  as  a  pyramid  against  the  sky.  In 
the  northwest  and  north  rise  some  of  the  grand  moun- 
tains of  the  central  range,  mighty,  snow-topped,  remote. 
The  park,  the  beautiful  cradle,  seems  but  a  hand's- 
breadth  long,  lying  at  the  feet  of  these  giants. 

In  the  south,  if  it  is  sunset, — and  only  at  sunset 
should  dwellers  in  the  Cradle  of  Peace  chmb  its  eastern 
wall,  —  Pike's  Peak  stands  glowing.  The  north  and 
northwestern  side  of  this  glorious  mountain  are  its  true 
face  of  beauty.  Living  to  the  eastward  of  it,  no  one 
knows  its  grandeur,  no  one  feels  its  height.  Smaller 
peaks  crowding  close  about  it  divide  and  lessen  its  glory. 
Its  northwestern  Hne  stretches  along  the  sky  in  a  steady, 
harmonious  descent,  from  fifteen  thousand  feet  to  eight 
or  ten.  Miles  and  miles  of  mountain-tops  welded  into 
one  long,  grand  spur  and  ending  at  last  in  a  sudden 
lift,  —  a  distinct  and  separated  summit,  as  straight  cut 
as  a  pryamid  and  sharper  pointed.  If  it  is  sunset,  — 
and,  as  I  said,  unless  it  be  sunset  come  not,  —  you  will 
see  this  long  spur,  welded,  forged,  fitted  and  piled  of 
mountain  masses,  glowing  in  full  light,  while  the  park 
is  in  soft  shadow.  Its  surfaces  are  many-sided,  sharp- 
ridged,  as  if  the  very  mountains  had  crystalhzed.  The 
faces  which  turn  west  are  opaline  pink,  the  faces  which 
turn  east  are  dusky  blue,  and  the  pink  and  the  blue 
change  and  shift  and  pale  and  brighten,  until  the  sweet 
silence  of  the  twilight  seems  marked  into  rhythms  by 
the  mere  motions  of  color.  It  is  a  sight  solemn  as 
beautiful,  and  the  absolute  soundlessness  of  the  great 
forest  spaces  makes  the  solemnity  almost  overawing. 
But  as  you  go  slowly  down  among  the  pines  into  the 
soft  grassy  hollows,  the  silence  is  broken  by  a  sound 
subtler  than  stringed  instrument,  brook,  or  bird  can 
give,  —  a  sound  more  of  kin  to  Nature,  it  always  seems 
to  me,  than  any  one  of  Nature's  own.  It  is  the  faint 
and  distant  tinkle  of  the  bell-cow's  bell.  There  is  a 
home  in  the  Cradle  of  Peace.  Standing  on  one  of 
the   low  foot-hills,  you  can  look  down  on  it,  and  see 


314  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME 

the  brown  and  white  herds  hurrying  toward  it  through 
the  meadow. 

It  is  a  ranch  of  six  cabins,  —  log  cabins,  bright  brown 
outside  and  bright  yellow  in.  One  is  the  dairy,  one  is 
the  house  of  the  master  of  the  ranch,  one  the  home  of 
his  men,  the  other  three  are  bedroom  cabins,  built 
solely  for  those  coming  from  the  world  to  rest  in  the 
Cradle  of  Peace.  Their  walls  and  their  floors  are  oi 
bare  boards  ;  their  ceilings  are  of  paper,  nailed  up  with 
tacks.  This  is  the  record  the  realist  will  bring  away. 
But  the  artist  will  only  remember  that,  the  boards  of  the 
walls  being  bright  yellow  pine  and  the  clay  in  the  chinks 
being  red  sandstone  clay,  the  sides  of  his  room  were  in 
alternate  stripes  of  gold  and  red  brown,  a  perpetual 
feast  of  color  to  his  eye ;  that,  the  paper  of  the  ceiling 
being  of  a  soft  blue  gray,  spaced  into  panels  by  narrow 
mouldings  of  the  bright  pellow  pine,  and  tacked  on  here 
and  there  by  silver-headed  tacks,  he  lay  half  awake  in 
his  bed  in  the  morning  twilights,  and  gazed  overhead 
with  a  dreamy  notion  that  he  was  looking  up  at  a  starry 
sky  through  a  yellow  lattice-work  roof.  But  realist  and 
artist  alike  will  remember  the  evenings  around  the 
cabin  hearth,  the  light  of  the  blazing  pine-logs  and  the 
voice  of  the  master  of  the  ranch,  —  Rugby  boy  and 
Cambridge  man,  — telling  how  in  his  "  longs  "  he  used 
to  hunt  seals  in  the  caves  of  the  wild  Hebrides. 

Every  day  Colorado  sees  men  with  the  blood  and  the 
love,  the  traditions  and  the  culture,  of  Old  England 
strong  within  them  falling  under  the  spell  of  her  wilder- 
nesses and  surrendering  to  her  mountains.  But  I  think 
she  has  won  no  truer  allegiance,  no  more  genuine  en- 
thusiasm, than  those  which  bind  and  kindle  the  life  and 
purpose  in  these  cabins  in  the  Cradle  of  Peace. 

Beautiful  Cradle  of  Peace  !  There  are  some  spots 
on  earth  which  seem  to  have  a  strong  personality  about 
them,  — a  charm  and  a  spell  far  beyond  any  thing  which 
mere  material  nature,  however  lovely,  can  exert ;  a 
charm  which  charms  like  the  beauty  of  a  human  face, 
and  a  spell  which  lasts  like  the  bond  of  a  human  rela- 


THE   CRADLE    OF  PEACE.  315 

tion.  In  such  spots  we  can  live  alone  without  being 
lonely.  We  go  away  from  them  with  the  same  sort  of 
sorrow  with  which  we  part  from  friends,  and  we  recall 
their  looks  with  the  yearning  tenderness  with  which  we 
look  on  the  photographs  of  beloved  absent  faces. 

Thus  I  left,  thus  I  shall  always  recall,  the  beautiful 
Cradle  of  Peace. 


3i6  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME 


A  WINTER   MORNING   AT   COLORADO 

SPRINGS. 

TO  the  east  and  the  south  and  the  north  ,2:reat  sunlit 
plains,  bounded  by  a  rounding  wall  of  the  furthest 
visible  sky,  —  it  might  be  by  the  Atlantic  and  the  Arctic 
and  the  Antarctic  seas,  for  aught  the  horizon  line  tells 
to  the  contrary  ;  to  the  west  a  grand  range  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  built  up  and  up  and  up,  — (first  soft,  dimp- 
hng,  crowding  foot-hills  ;  then  jagged,  overlapping 
ridges  ;  then  sharp,  glistening,  snow-topped  peaks,  till 
the  blue  is  touched  fifteen  thousand  feet  high  in  the 
air);  fronting  the  mountains,  making  a  little  space  of 
shining  dots  and  lines  on  the  sunlit  plains,  the  baby 
town  of  Colorado  Springs,  the  "  Fountain  Colony.  '  It 
IS  the  fourteenth  day  of  December,  v^'inter,  by  the  cal- 
endar. Winter,  too,  to  the  eye.  Ice  lies  firm-frozen  in 
the  gutters,  and  even  the  low  foot-hills  are  powdered 
with  snow.  The  mercury  registered  only  14  degrees 
this  morning  at  six  o'clock,  and  we  are  wrapped  in  furs 
for  our  drive  ;  but  we  are  going  in  an  open  carriage, 
and  our  eyes  must  be  sheltered  from  the  blazing  sun  as 
much  as  if  it  were  midsummer.  Winter  by  the  calen- 
dar, winter  to  the  sight  and  touch  ;  but  winter  which 
wooes  and  warms  like  June. 

The  horses  bound  and  spring  hke  frolicsome  kittens. 
The  electric  air  stirs  their  blood,  as  well  as  ours.  Not 
until  after  long  driving  will  they  settle  down  to  a  steady 
trot. 

We  turn  our  backs  on  the  sun.  It  is  not  yet  eleven 
o'clock  ;  but  there  is  the  feeling  of  noon  in  the  air,  and 
it  is  pleasanter  driving  west  than  east.     The  mountains 


A   MORNING   AT  COLORADO  SPRINGS.    317 

look  only  a  few  steps  away ;  but  we  shall  have  trotted 
steadily  toward  them  for  one  good  half-hour  before  we 
shall  have  reached  the  first  of  the  foot-hills. 

Across  sandy  bottoms,  where  silvery-gray  cotton- wood 
trees  mark  the  courses  of  small  brooks,  through  the  one 
street  of  poor,  desolate,  mistaken,  discouraged  "Colo- 
rado City,"  up  gently  climbing  slopes,  brown  and  gray 
and  orange-tinted,  and  set  here  and  there  with  sharp, 
serrated  ledges  of  gleaming  red  sandstone,  and  we 
strike  the  line  of  the  Fountain  Creek,  a  dashing  little 
amber  brook,  which  has  made  brave  way  down  the  pass 
up  which  we  are  going.  The  road  follows  the  creek, 
crosses  it  wherever  it  doubles,  and  crowds  it  close  for 
room  in  narrow  places. 

Before  we  know  that  we  have  fairly  left  the  plains,  we 
find  ourselves  shut  in  by  hills  on  either  side,  and  in  the 
very  heart  of  Manitou.  Manitou  is  a  glen,  a  valley  con- 
sisting chiefly  of  sides,  a  little  fairy  canyon,  full  of  rocks 
and  fir-trees,  and  the  creek,  and  effervescing  medicine 
springs.  It  holds  also  three  hotels,  a  post-office,  a 
store,  a  livery  stable,  and  a  few  other  houses.  Here 
Grace  Greenwood  has  built  a  dainty  cottage,  in  a  clema- 
tis tangle.  Here  Dr.  Bell,  an  Enghshman,  well  known 
in  Colorado,  has  built  a  house  of  the  pink  and  red  stone, 
which  blends  so  exquisitely  with  the  landscape  that  it 
looks  like  a  natural  outgrowth  of  it.  Here,  ten  years 
hence,  will  be  dozens  of  villas,  perched  in  little  grassy 
spots  on  the  ledges  and  rocky  slopes.  Already  most  of 
the  building  sites  are  sold,  —  and  chiefly  to  Englishmen. 
To  cross  both  an  ocean  and  a  continent  for  one's  sum- 
mer home  seems  a  brave  indifference  to  trouble. 

But  even  this  shining  little  nook  does  not  keep  us  this 
morning.  We  dash  through  it,  still  side  by  side  with 
the  creek,  following  and  crossing  and  recrossing  it,  and 
in  five  minutes  Manitou  is  lost  to  us,  as  the  plains  were 
just  back,  and  we  are  once  more  walled  in  on  either 
side,  —  this  time  by  higher,  closer,  and  rockier  walls. 
This  is  the  real  entrance  of  the  Ute  Pass.  The  road 
seems  leading  straight  into  a  mountain  of  rock.      A 


3iS  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

strange  hollowed  niche  faces  us  ;  it  looks  like  a  gigantic 
portal,  barred  and  double-barred.  On  the  left,  many 
feet  below,  runs  the  little  amber-colored  creek.  No,  it 
does  not  run ;  it  skips,  it  threads  its  way,  it  is  half  in, 
half  out  of  sight.  Between  ice  and  snow  and  huge 
bowlders,  journeying  is  made  hard  for  it  this  morning  ; 
but  wherever  it  is  clearly  in  sight  it  is  still  amber  and 
yellow  and  limpid,  and  fine  red  and  white  pebbles  gleam 
through  it  like  mosaics.  And  wherever  the  ice  veils  it 
the  effects  are  yet  more  fantastic.  We  have  swung 
round  the  gigantic  stone  portal,  and  are  fairly  in  the 
pass.  On  little  grassy  bits  of  soil  and  in  crevices  of 
the  rock,  high  up  above  our  heads,  fir-trees  grow  at 
perilous  slants.  Gray,  leafless  cotton-wood  trees  and 
alders,  graceful  with  dried  brown  catkins  on  every  twig, 
grow  on  the  edges  of  the  creek  below.  We  look  down 
through  their  tops  in  some  of  the  steepest  places.  On 
the  summits  of  the  walls,  on  both  sides,  are  magnificent 
masses  of  red  and  yellow  and  brown  rock,  shaped  like 
castles,  Hke  monuments,  like  ruins  ;  some  most  curi- 
ously mottled  with  black  lines  or  vivid  green  hchens. 
But  we  cannot  remember  to  look  up.  The  creek  rivets 
our  eyes.  Surely  never  before  of  a  warm  and  sunny 
morning  were  such  ice  fantasies  to  be  seen  and  heard. 
We  jump  from  the  carriage.  The  horses  toil  up  the 
steep  road.  We  turn  from  all  the  grandeur  of  the  pass, 
and  walk  with  downward-bent  eyes,  looking  into  a  weird 
and  shining  realm.  How  shall  they  be  told,  the  mar- 
vellous things  which  water  and  ice  and  sunshine  are 
doing  in  the  bed  of  the  Fountain  Creek  on  this  June 
day  of  December  !  Ice  bridges  ;  ice  arches  ;  ice  veils 
over  little  falls  ;  rippled  water-lines  frozen  into  ice  films  ; 
ice  sheaths  on  roots  and  twigs  ;  ice  canopies  on  shelv' 
ing  places,  with  fringing  rows  of  ice-drops  rounded  and 
tapered  like  bells  ;  ice  shields,  round  and  wrought  in 
daintier  patterns  than  Damascus  ever  drew  ;  ice  colon- 
nades, three  floors  deep,  the  stalactites  all  tapering  to 
the  top  like  masts,  and  the  sunlight  making  rainbow 
bars  on  the  lowest  floor,  —  these  are  a  few  of  the  shapes 
and  semblances  to  which  words  can  give  names. 


A   MORNING  AT  Cu  LOR  A  DO  SPRINGS.     3i9 

Then  there  were,  in  wider  places  of  the  brook,  round 
capes  of  ice,  making  out  into  the  amber  water.  These 
were  scolloped  on  the  outer  edges,  wonderfully  like  the 
shell-shaped  fungi  which  grow  on  old  trees.  They  were 
full  of  fine  lines,  following  always  the  scollop  of  the 
outer  edge,  hke  the  hues  on  the  fungi.  Sometimes 
there  were  three  layers  of  these  exquisite  ice  shells,  all 
transparent,  all  mottled,  and  lined  with  infinite  intricacy 
of  design,  and  the  water  gliding  above,  below,  between 
them,  breaking  now  and  then  on  their  edges  suddenly 
like  a  wave,  —  the  tidal  record  of  some  other  wave  far 
up  the  pass. 

These  tidal  waves  made  their  most  exquisite  record 
on  the  thinner  ice  edges  of  some  limpid  pools  further 
up  the  creek.  Here  they  pulsed  in  and  out  with  a 
rhythmic  motion,  and  as  each  withdrawal  left  the  ice 
rim  perfectly  transparent,  the  swift  sunlight  struck  it, 
marking  the  outer  edge  with  fine  pencilled  Hues  of  flash- 
ing silver.  As  regular  as  the  strokes  of  a  metronome, 
and  seeming  almost  to  keep  time  for  the  melody  of  the 
bubbling  water,  they  came  and  went,  and  came  and 
went ;  amber,  silver,  amber,  silver.  No  doubt  there 
was  a  liquid  syllable  of  sound  to  each  individual  curve, 
and  there  were  ears  finer  than  ours  which  could  hear 
it,  —  the  cony  and  the  fox,  perhaps,  for  they  had  been 
there  before  us.  Their  weird  little,  pattering  foot-prints 
were  all  about  on  the  snow  ;  disappearing  at  entrances 
of  rock  crevices  or  under  fallen  logs,  crossing  and  re- 
crossing  on  the  ice  bridges,  which  looked  too  frail  to 
bear  even  a  cony's  weight. 

But  conies  are  said  to  be  a  fearless  folk :  and  well  they 
may  be  who  dwell  in  impregnable  homes  in  the  walls  of 
the  Utc  Pass.  There  was  also  one  tiny  track  of  a  bird. 
Barely  a  third  of  an  inch  long  the  foot-prints  were,  but 
as  firmly  defined  on  the  feathery  snow  as  if  a  pencil 
had  drawn  them  but  the  moment  before.  The  little 
creature  had  evidently  gone  to  the  very  edge  of  the  ice 
to  drink.  There  it  had  slipped,  and,  struggling  to 
regain  a  foothold,  had  made   a  tiny   trampling.     We 


520  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

dipped  our  drinking-cup  at  the  same  spot  and  drank  to 
the  health  of  the  unknown  guest  before  us.  Magpie  ? 
blue  jay  ?  A  happy  new  year  to  you  !  And  a  happy 
year  they  have  of  it,  in  these  cedars  and  firs,  with  spicy 
juniper  berries  for  the  picking.  They  flit  about  on  all 
the  roads,  as  familiarly  and  as  commonly  as  robins  in 
May.  The  blue  jay  has  a  fine  crest  on  his  head,  and  is 
of  such  a  brilliant  and  shimmering  blue,  when  the  sun 
strikes  him,  that  he  looks  like  a  bit  of  sky  tumbled 
down  and  floating  about.  As  for  the  magpie,  he  is  so 
vivid  a  black  and  white  that  he  lights  up  a  pine-tree 
almost  as  well  as  an  oriole  can. 

Now  we  have  reached  the  main  fall  of  the  creek. 
No  cony  or  fox  has  crossed  here.  Even  the  tiniest 
bird's  footfall  would  have  dislodged  this  thin-fringed 
ice  and  snow  canopy  which  overhangs  the  fall.  It 
sways  from  side  to  side  and  undulates,  and  we  look 
momently  to  see  it  fall ;  but  it  does  not.  There  must 
be  ice  pillars  beneath  it,  which  we  cannot  see.  Exactly 
in  the  centre,  reaching  almost  dowrto  the  rushing  water, 
hangs  one  pendant  globule,  pear-shaped,  flashing  like  a 
diamond  in  the  sun.  "  The  solitaire  of  all  the  world  !  " 
said  we;  "and  presently  it  shall  be  dissolved  and 
swallowed  in  a  foaming  draught."  "  And  who  sits  at 
the  banquet?"  "The  name  of  the  queen  is  Nature, 
and  he  who  loves  is  emperor  always." 

These  things  we  said,  because  when  to  midwinter 
at  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  is  added  the  sun 
of  June  the  heads  and  hearts  of  men  grow  gay  as  by 
wine. 

Then  we  crept  out  to  the  edge  of  a  sharp  rock,  and 
there  in  the  warm  sun  we  sat,  looking  down  into  the 
huge  crystal  bowl  into  which  the  water  had  been  pour- 
ing and  foaming  and  freezing,  until  the  frozen  foam 
reached  up  half  way  to  the  top  of  the  fall.  A  glorious 
crystal  beaker  it  was,  —  solid  white  snow  at  bottom, 
granulated  frost-work  up  the  sides,  and  trestlework 
of  stalactites  around  and  below  it,  and  every  moment 
the  foaming  silver  was  building  it  higher  and  higher. 


A  MORNING  AT  COLORADO  SPRINGS.     321 

But  noon  is  near,  and  the  seven  homeward  miles  will 
seem  long.  In  a  peculiarly  narrow  bend  of  the  road, 
where  the  hind  wheels  graze  the  rock  wall  and  our 
horses'  heads  look  off  over  the  precipice,  we  turn.  We 
are  not  half  through  the  pass.  For  five  miles  more  the 
road  and  the  creek  crowd  up  into  the  heart  of  the  moun- 
tains ;  but  we  count  those  miles  as  misers  count  gains 
to  come.  MilHonaires  that  we  are,  we  have  yet  whole 
months  of  winter  mornings  ahead. 

Now,  as  we  descend,  we  see  the  full  grandeur  of  the 
pass.  Across  its  opening,  to  the  southwest,  stand  the 
mighty  mountains.  Pikes  Peak,  fifteen  thousand  feet 
high,  and  Cameron's  Cone,  only  a  little  lower,  are  in 
full  sight,  and  it  seems  that  the  only  way  out  must  lie 
through  the  sky  over  their  tops.  With  every  turn  we 
make  new  mountains  rise  across  our  path  and  the  wails  on 
our  right  hand  and  our  left  seem  wilder  and  more  abrupt. 
Then  of  a  sudden  we  swing  out  into  the  open  peace 
and  sunshine  of  lovely  Manitou  again,  and  home  over 
the  plains,  seven  miles  to  the  hour,  the  June  sun  burn- 
ing our  faces  and  the  December  snow  dazzling  our  eyes. 
And  this  is  midwinter  in  Colorado. 


322  BITS   OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 


GRAND   CANYON   OF   THE   ARKANSAS. 

THE  Arkansas  River  at  Pueblo  is  a  very  languid 
stream.  It  goes  zig-zagging  along  as  dilatorily 
as  a  boy  goes  to  school  of  a  May  morning.  In  and 
out,  among  and  around  gravelly  sand-bars  and  long  nar- 
row strips  of  islands,  plumy  with  cotton-woods,  its 
twisting  and  untwisting  threads  of  water  seem  hardly 
to  make  a  respectable  river.  But  as  soon  as  you  set 
your  face  westward  and  follow  up  the  way  it  has  come 
down,  you  find  that  it  is  not  an  aimless,  characterless 
wanderer,  after  all.  A  narrow-gauge  railroad  (the  Denver 
and  Rio  Grande)  creeps  up  on  its  left  side,  and  is  very 
soon  pressed  for  room.  The  banks  become  vertical  walls, 
and  in  many  places  rise  almost  sheer  from  the  water. 
As  the  river  curves,  so  must  the  railroad,  and  the  bends 
are  sharp.  Often  the  engine  and  the  first  car  are  in  full 
view  to  the  right  or  the  left  from  the  rear  car.  The 
river  is  swift  and  muddy.  Boiling  chocolate,  with  the 
cream  frothing  on  the  top,  is  like  it.  Old  snags,  gray  and 
weather-beaten,  come  sailing  past.  Now  and  then,  an 
uprooted  tree  drifts  by,  head  down,  with  the  roots  toss- 
ing like  arms  reaching  for  help.  The  high  banks  are  of 
yellow  sandstone,  limestone,  and  clay.  The  rocks  are 
strangely  rounded  out,  like  turrets  and  bastions.  Some- 
times they  seemed  to  be  piled  up  in  thin  layers  ;  some- 
times they  look  like  solid  hewn  stone  from  base  to  top. 
The  clay  or  sand  slopes  are  dotted  with  low  pine-trees, 
but  the  trees  are  never  so  thick  as  to  shut  out  the  pallid 
yellow-gray  tint  of  the  clay  or  rock  on  which  they  stand. 
It  is  an  ugly  color  and  in  a  strong  sunlight  makes  a 
glare  as  unpleasant  to  the  eye  as  that  from  a  white  sur- 


GRAND  CANYON  OF  THE  ARKANSAS.     323 

face  ;  and  much  more  irritating  to  the  nerves,  because, 
the  color  being  so  dull,  it  has  no  business  to  glare  and 
you  cannot  understand  how  it  manages  to  do  it.  Never- 
theless, the  panorama  of  the  river  is  a  beautiful  one  as 
it  unfolds  mile  after  mile.  It  is  rimmed  with  cotton- 
woods  and  willows.  Wherever  it  widens  it  has  Httle 
islands  also  green  with  cotton-woods  and  willows,  and 
here  and  there  are  picturesque  yellow  log  cabins  sur- 
rounded by  meadow  fields.  The  bluffs  look  like  long 
lines  of  fortifications,  sometimes  faUing  into  ruin ; 
sometimes  as  clean  cut  and  complete  in  arch,  doorway, 
embrasure,  and  turret  as  if  they  but  waited  for  guns. 
As  the  valley  opens  wider,  the  vista  to  the  west  is 
longer,  and  mountain  range  after  mountain  range  comes 
into  sight,  rising  like  walls  across  the  pathway  of  the 
river,  which  sweeps  ahead  in  curves,  like  a  huge,  shin- 
ing sickle,  reaping  the  meadow.  The  cotton-wood  trees 
are  a  great  beauty  in  the  picture.  The  cotton-wood  is 
among  the  trees  what  the  mocking-bird  is  among  birds. 
It  can  take  any  shape  it  likes  and  deceive  your  eye,  as 
the  mocking-bird  deceives  your  ear.  Only  its  color 
betrays  it.  That  is  a  light,  brilhant  green,  almost 
transparent  in  the  spring.  On  the  Atlantic  seaboard 
there  is  no  tree  tint  to  compare  with  it,  unless  it  be  the 
tint  of  a  young  white  birch  in  early  June,  when  it  stands 
between  you  and  the  sun.  The  effect  of  thick  rounded 
masses  of  this  vivid  green,  as  seen  against  red  sand- 
stone or  granitic  rocks,  or  thrown  up  by  the  pale 
olive  gray  of  the  Colorado  plains,  cannot  be  described, 
and  if  it  were  faithfully  rendered  in  a  painting  would  be 
thought  crude  or  impossible.  And  when  one  sees  this 
plumy  green  arrayed  on  the  forms  of  slender,  drooping 
elms,  stiff,  straight  poplars,  swaying  birches,  round- 
topped  sugar-maples,  fantastic  sycamores,  and  even  old 
gnarled  and  twisted  apple-trees,  it  is  bewildering.  Yet 
all  these  may  be  seen  in  capriciously  blended  groups  in 
the  valley  of  the  Arkansas  River,  between  Pueblo  and 
Canyon  City.  Canyon  City  is  a  small  village  lying  just 
at  the  mouth  of  Giand  Canyon  of  the  Arkansas.     You 


324  BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

reach  it,  if  you  have  come  by  rail,  just  at  sunset  and  in 
the  sunset  light  it  is  picturesque.  It  has  a  background  to 
the  west  and  north  of  mountains,  which  will  be  purple  at 
that  hour  and  cast  soft  dark  shadows  far  beyond  the  vil- 
lage, out  over  the  river  valley.  Next  morning  you  look  out 
on  a  scene  so  changed  that  it  seems  hke  enchantment. 
The  gold  has  Hterally  turned  to  ashes,  for  the  whole  region 
is  of  a  pallid  gray.  The  soil  is  adobe,  cracked  and 
seamed  and  printed  with  the  mark  of  each  wheel,  each 
foot,  which  went  over  it  in  the  last  wet  days  when 
it  was  mud.  The  mountains  are  comparatively  bare 
and  rocky,  and  the  foot-hills  present  a  succession 
of  oval  fronts,  all  of  pale  gray  limestone  or  adobe  clay. 
The  penitentiary,  also  of  gray  stone,  stands  conspicu- 
ously in  sight.  The  convicts,  in  queer  tights,  with 
alternate  black  and  white  stripes  going  round  them  from 
chin  to  ankles  —  legs,  arms,  body  all  alike — are  run- 
ning to  and  fro,  wheeling  barrows  full  of  gray  stone  or 
digging  gray  stone  out  of  the  gray  foot-hills.  They 
look  like  zebras,  or  imps  in  an  opera.  The  sun  streams 
full  from  the  east  on  the  bare  gray  foot-hills  and  pale 
adobe  clay,  and  is  reflected  sharply  back  from  the  moun- 
tain wall,  without  a  softening  shadow  or  break  to  the 
pallid  glare.  I  have  seldom  seen  any  thing  more  hope- 
lessly ugly  than  Canyon  City  of  a  hot  morning.  Yet  it 
is  something  to  be  picturesque  and  beautiful  once  in 
every  twenty-four  hours,  and  of  that  Canyon  City  may 
boast.  Moreover,  to  be  just  to  the  little  town,  it  has  a 
wide-awake  look  and  is  growing  fast.  The  shops  are 
good  and  there  are  three  hotels,  all  ot  which  are  toler- 
able. No  doubt,  in  a  few  years  it  will  be  largely  known 
as  a  resort  for  invalids,  for  the  winter  climate  is  a  very 
pleasant  one, — much  warmer  and  milder  than  that  oi 
Colorado  Springs,  and,  therefore,  better  for  many  con- 
sumptives. Moreover,  there  are  bubbhng  up  in  the 
limestone  rocks  at  the  mouth  of  the  Grand  Canyon 
several  nauseous  hot  springs,  variously  medicated,  and 
the  class  of  people  who  will  drink  th's  sort  of  water  is  a 
large  and  nomadic  one. 


GRAMD  CANYON  OF  THE  ARKANSAS.     325 

The  drive  from  Canyon  City  to  the  top  of  the  Grand 
Canyon  is  a  ten-miles  climb  up-hill.  You  do  well  if 
you  make  it  in  three  hours.  The  road  winds  among  low 
hills,  round,  pointed,  conical,  barren  except  for  the 
cactuses  and  pinon   trees. 

The  road  is  red.  The  hills  are  red,  with  here  and 
there  a  cropping  out  of  yellow  limestone.  For  a  mile 
or  two,  the  road  follows  the  course  of  what  is  called, 
with  a  dismal  Hteralness,  "  Sand  Creek."  A  creek  of 
sand  it  is,  indeed.  Now  and  then,  for  a  few  rods,  a 
darkened  line  of  moisture  or  perhaps  a  threadlike 
glimmer  of  water ;  but  for  the  rest  only  a  ghastly  and 
furrowed  channel,  dry  as  a  desert.  "  In  the  spring  it  is 
full,  I  suppose,"  I  said,  forgetting  that  it  was  a  spring 
morning  then.  The  driver  looked  at  me  with  mild 
wonder.  "  Never  see  it  higher 'n  'tis  now,"  he  replied. 
"  Dunno  what  they  call't  a  creek  for,  anyhow."  But  a 
creek  it  must  have  been  at  some  time.  The  Arkansas 
River  is  shallower  to-day  by  reason  of  loss  of  its  water. 
Its  bed  is  full  of  water-worn  pebbles,  and  its  banks 
are  hollowed  out  and  terraced  as  nothing  can  hollow 
and  terrace  except  that  master  builder  and  destroyer, 
water. 

Three  miles  from  the  canyon  we  stopped  to  buy  milk 
at  a  little  ranch  which  we  had  named  in  our  hearts  the 
year  before  "  Lone  Woman's  Ranch."  We  had  found 
living  there  an  elderly  woman,  whose  husband  had  just 
died.  She  had  buried  him  on  a  low  hill  a  rod  or  two 
from  the  house.  The  grave  was  surrounded  by  a  high 
paling  made  of  split  cedar  logs.  The  little  house  was 
comfortable,  built  of  adobe  bricks,  and  stood  in  a  sunny 
and  sheltered  nook.  The  farm  was  a  good  one,  she 
said,  and  there  were  a  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of  land  ; 
but  it  was  a  sad  outlook  for  her,  the  undertaking  to 
work  it  herself.  We  had  often  thought  of  her,  and 
wondered  now,  as  we  drove  up  to  the  gate,  if  we  should 
find  her  living  there  still.  She  was  there,  and  with  hei 
a  daughter  and  grandchild.  The  lonely  year  of  hard 
work  had  told  on  her  face,  and  she  was  gladder  than 


326         BITS  OF  Travel  at  home. 

ever  of  a  few  moments'  chat,  even  with  strangers. 
Every  thing  looked  as  neat  and  well-kept  as  before  ; 
nothing  had  changed  except  the  woman's  face,  which 
had  grown  thin  and  dark,  and  the  cedar  palings  around 
the  grave,  which  had  grown  white  and  glistening.  As 
we  drove  away,  she  called  after  us  :  "I  hope  you'll  en- 
joy yourselves  ;  but  it's  a  dreadful  ugly  place  up  there. 
At  least,  I  couldn't  never  see  any  thing  pretty  in  it." 

She  was  right.  There  is  nothing  '•  pretty  "  about  the 
Grand  Canyon  of  the  Arkansas.  From  the  moment 
when  you  first  reach  the  top  of  the  grand  amphitheatre- 
like plateau  in  which  the  rift  was  made,  until  the  mo- 
ment in  which  you  stand  on  the  very  edge  of  the  chasm 
and  look  dizzily  over  and  down,  there  is  but  one  thought, 
but  one  sense,  —  the  thought  of  wonder,  the  sense  of 
awe.  The  uncultured  mind  to-day  is  but  one  remove 
from  the  savage  mind  in  its  feeling  when  confronted 
with  nature  at  her  grandest.  I  do  not  know  what 
Indians  inhabited  the  region  of  the  Arkansas  River  a 
half  century  ago  ;  but  I  would  hazard  the  statement 
that  they  held  many  an  unhallowed  rite  on  the  edge  of 
this  abyss  and  believed  that  the  bad  Spirit  lived  in  it. 
The  superstition  is  shorn  of  its  strength  and  definite- 
ness  to-day,  but  Hngers  still  in  a  vague  antagonism  to 
the  spot,  —  a  disposition  to  avoid  it  because  it  is  not 
"pretty." 

I  said  that  the  plateau  in  which  the  rift  is  made  was 
amphitheatre-like.  The  phrase  is  at  once  a  good  and  a 
bad  one,  —  bad  because  it  is  hardly  possible  for  the 
mind  to  conceive  of  the  amphitheatre  shape  without  a 
good  deal  of  limitation  in  size.  Do  what  we  will,  the 
Cohseum  is  apt  to  rise  before  us  whenever  we  use  the 
word  amphitheatre.  To  picture  to  one's  self  an  amphi- 
theatre whose  central  space  shall  be  measured  by  tens, 
twenties,  and  thirties  of  miles,  shall  be  varied  by 
meadow  parks  and  the  forests  which  enclose  the  parks, 
and  whose  circling  tiers  of  seats  shall  be  mountain 
ranges,  rising  higher  and  higher,  until  the  highest,  daz- 
zling white   with  snow,  seem  to  cleave  the  sky,  rathei 


GRAND  CANYON  OF   THE  ARKANSAS.    327 

than  to  rest  against  it,  —  this  is  not  easy.  Yet  it  is  pre- 
cisely such  an  amphitheatre  as  this  that  we  are  in  as  we 
approach  the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Arkansas.  From 
every  hill-summit  that  is  gained  the  amphitheatre  effect 
is  more  and  more  striking,  until  at  last  its  tiers  of  moun- 
tain walls  are  in  full  view,  —  south,  west,  north,  and  east. 
Then  it  is  that,  walking  along  through  the  groves  of 
pi  non-trees  and  seeing  so  far  and  so  clear  in  all  ways, 
one  wonders  where  can  be  the  canyon.  This  is  a  broad 
mountain-top  plateau.  It  seems  as  if  one  might  journey 
across  it  in  any  direction  one  liked,  and  come  sooner  or 
later  to  the  base  of  the  horizon  heights.  Suddenly, 
going  southward,  one  finds  the  trees  scantier,  wider 
apart,  ceasing  altogether.  The  stony  ground  becomes 
stonier  and  stonier,  until  only  armed  cactuses  and 
thorny  shrubs  keep  foot-hold  in  the  confusion  of  rocks. 
Then,  looking  southward,  one  sees  a  few  rods  ahead  a 
strange  effect  in  the  air.  There  is  no  precipice  edge 
visible  as  yet  ;  but  the  eye  perceives  that  just  beyond 
there  is  a  break,  and  there  against  the  sky  looms  up  a 
wall  whose  base  is  out  of  sight.  It  is  strangely  near, 
yet  far.  Between  it  and  the  ground  you  stand  on  is  a 
shimmer  of  inexplicable  lights  and  reflections.  This 
wall  is  the  further  wall  of  the  Great  Canyon.  A  few 
steps  moie  and  you  look  in.  You  have  been  already 
for  some  moments  walking  on  ground  which  was  only 
the  surface  of  an  outjutting  promontory  of  the  nearer 
wall.  Twelve  hundred  feet  below  you  roars  the  Arkan- 
sas River,  pent  up  in  a  channel  so  narrow  that  it  looks 
like  a  brook  one  might  ford.  On  its  narrow  rims  of 
bank  there  are  lying  sticks  of  wood  which  look  Hke  fine 
kindling  wood.  They  are  heavy  railroad  ties,  floated 
down  from  the  timber-lands  in  the  mountains. 

This  point,  which  it  has  taken  a  ten  miles'  climb  to 
reach,  is  only  two  miles  from  the  mouth  of  the  canyon. 
To  one  looking  eastward  through  the  mouth,  the 
plains  seem  but  a  lower  belt  of  sky,  sky  and  plains  to- 
gether making  a  triangle  of  bars  of  dainty  color,  put  up 
like  a  stile,  as  it  were  from  wall  to  wall  of  the  canyon, 


328  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME, 

or  stretched  like  a  curtain,  or  set  like  a  band  of  gay  tiles 
from  eaves  to  eaves  of  a  huge  gable,  the  roof  being  the 
sky.  There  is  no  end  to  the  fancies  one  has,  looking 
at  these  distant  triangles  of  sky,  or  of  sky  and  plain, 
seen  between  the  converging  lines  of  canyon  walls  in 
this  country  of  wonderful  perspectives. 

But  this  single  outlook  from  and  downlook  into  the 
canyon  gives  only  a  small  idea  of  its  grandeur.  To 
comprehend  it,  one  must  toil  slowly  westward  along  its 
edge,  cHmbing  up  and  down  to  the  upper  and  lower 
promontories  of  its  walls.  It  is  six  or  seven  miles  long 
and  at  every  step  its  features  change.  Now  the  wall 
rises  abruptly  from  the  water,  —  so  abruptly  that  it 
looks  as  if  it  might  reach  as  many  hundred  feet  below 
as  above  ;  and  now  it  is  broken  into  different  slopes,  as 
if  slides  upon  slides  had  narrowed  it  below  and  widened 
it  above.  Now  it  is  bare  rock,  hned  and  stained  and 
furrowed,  as  if  wrought  by  tools  ;  now  it  is  cleft  from 
base  to  top,  as  if  streams  had  leaped  over  and  worn 
pathways  for  themselves.  No  doubt  they  did  ;  for  in 
these  clefts  are  patches  of  solid  green,  — wild  currants 
and  gooseberries  and  spiraeas  and  many  a  graceful 
green-leaved  thing  I  did  not  know.  The  rocks  are  all 
granitic,  the  prevalent  tint  being  red  or  gray,  with  sharp 
markings  of  black.  Seen  closer,  they  are  a  mosaic  of 
lichens, — gray,  black,  hght-yellowish  green,  and  deep 
orange.  They  sparkle  with  mica,  and  have  here  and 
there  glistening  white  pebbles  of  quartz  set  in  their  red 
surfaces,  like  snowy  raisins  in  a  crimson  pudding. 
Again  and  again  you  come  out  upon  points  from  which 
no  river  can  be  seen,  so  sharply  do  the  walls  turn  and 
shut  off  the  view  both  ways.  The  further  west  you  go, 
the  wilder  and  more  terrible  the  abyss  becomes,  until 
the  walls  begin  to  slope  down  again  to  the  western 
plain  or  park,  through  which  the  river  has  come.  The 
wall  on  which  you  are  walking  seems  sometimes  to  be 
nothing  but  a  gigantic  pile  of  separate  bowlders.  More 
than  once  I  turned  back  shuddering  from  a  rocky  cause- 
way in  front  of  which  the  bowlders  were   so  loosely 


GRAND   CANYON  OF    THE  ARKANSAS.  329 

poised  that  I  could  look  down  between  them,  through 
fantastic  window  after  window,  into  the  chasm  below. 
Here  and  there  among  these  toppling  yet  immovable 
bowlders  stood  an  old  pifion-tree,  holding  on  to  the 
rocks  by  its  gnarled  roots  as  by  grappling-irons.  About 
four  miles  up  is  a  second  canyon,  some  three  or  four 
hundred  rods  long,  leading  to  the  right,  as  if  the  river 
had  tried  first  to  break  through  there,  but  had  found 
the  mountain  too  strong.  It  is  but  a  figure  of  ignorant 
speech,  however,  to  say  that  the  river  broke  through. 
The  volcano  went  ahead  and  tunnelled  its  road.  Water 
never  makes  violent  way  for  itself;  and  whenever  it 
does  wear  a  channel  through  rock  it  works  backward, 
as  at  Niagara.  Standing  on  the  edge  of  this  great 
chasm  and  looking  down  to  the  narrow  thread  of  foam 
at  its  bottom,  one  wonders  that  even  the  most  ignorant 
mind  could  for  a  moment  suppose  that  the  water  had 
cleaved  the  rock.  It  must  have  been  a  mighty  throe  of 
volcanic  action  which  did  it.  A  supreme  moment  to 
have  seen,  surely,  if  there  had  been  any  spot  just  then 
cool  enough  to  stand  on.  The  other  day  I  saw  a  curi- 
ous little  thing,  —  a  silver  button  which  had  burst  into 
an  irregular  rose-shaped  flower  by  the  same  process  and 
by  virtue  of  the  same  law.  It  was  an  odd  thing  to  be 
reminded  by  a  dainty  silver  rose  lying  in  the  palm  of 
my  hand  of  a  vast  rock-walled  canyon,  with  a  river  rush- 
ing through  it ;  yet  I  was,  for  a  sudden  cooHng  made 
them  both.  The  little  silver  button  is  heated  to  a  cer- 
tain point,  and  in  the  process  absorbs  oxygen.  The 
instant  it  is  taken  out  of  the  oven  and  the  cold  air 
strikes  it,  the  oxygen  is  violently  expelled,  and  the  silver 
shoots  upward,  falls  apart,  and  stiftens  in  fantasdc  and 
Irregular  points,  which  are  wonderfully  petal-like  in  their 
arrangement.  Yet  they  reminded  me  instantly  of  the 
outlines  of  many  of  the  rock  walls  and  ridges  in  Colo- 
rado. Perhaps,  if  one  could  go  high  enough  and  look 
down,  one  might  see  in  the  great  mountain  ranges  a 
similar  grouping,  a  petal-like  centring,  a  Titanic  efflo- 
rescence of  a  planet  cooled  suddenly  at  white  heat. 


33^  f^ITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

It  was  late  twilight  when  on  our  homeward  way  we 
stopped  again  for  a  moment  at  "  Lonely  Woman's 
Ranch."  The  cedar  palings  around  the  lonely  grave 
glistened  whiter  in  the  strugghng  moonlight  and  the 
spot  looked  loneher  than  it  did  in  the  morning.  The 
woman  was  more  profuse  than  ever  in  her  voluble  wel- 
come. She  asked  eagerly  if  we  had  no  friends  who 
would  like  to  buy  her  ranch.  "  One  hundred  and  sixty 
acres  for  fifteen  hundred  dollars."  It  was  "a  good 
chance  for  anybody  that  wanted  to  come  into  this 
country  to  settle." 

"  You  really  want  to  sell  it  ?  "  we  said. 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  be  nearer  to  town,  for  sake  of 
schools,"  she  said.  And  then,  as  if  a  little  conscience- 
stricken  at  having  given  only  a  part  of  her  reason,  she 
added,  with  a  touching  pathos  in  her  tone  :  "  And  it  is 
so  lonesome  for  me,  too," 

In  the  bushes  behind  the  house  an  owl  was  hooting, 
"  Twohoo  !  hoo  !  hoo  !  "  and  as  we  drove  on  both 
echoes  blended  strangely  in  our  ears :  — 

"  Twohoo  !  hoo  !  hoo  1 
Lonesome  for  me,  too,  too  1  " 


OUR  NEW  ROAD.  33 X 


OUR    NEW    ROAD. 

WHAT  a  new  singer  or  a  new  play  is  to  the  city 
man,  a  new  road  is  to  the  man  of  the  wilder- 
ness. 

I  fancy  the  parallel  might  be  drawn  out  and  amplified, 
much  to  the  exaltation  of  the  new  road,  if  the  man  of 
the  wilderness  chose  to  boast,  and  if  people  were  sensi- 
ble enough  to  value  pleasures  as  they  do  other  fabrics, 
by  their  wear.  It  would  be  cruel,  however,  to  make 
the  city  man  discontented.  Poor  fellow  !  he  is  joined 
to  his  idols  of  stone,  buried  alive  above  them  now,  and 
soon  he  will  be  buried  dead  below  them.  Let  him 
alone  !  It  is  no  part  of  my  purpose  in  this  paper  to 
enter  the  lists  in  defence  of  my  joys,  or  to  make  an 
attack  upon  his.  It  is  merely  to  describe  our  new 
road  ;  and  my  pronoun  "  our  "  is  by  no  means  a  narrow 
one,  —  it  is  a  big  plural,  taking  in  some  four  thousand 
souls,  all  the  dwellers  in  the  town  of  Colorado  Springs 
and  its  near  neighborhood. 

The  "  new  road  "  is  up  and  across  Cheyenne  Moun- 
tain. Cheyenne  Mountain  is  the  southernmost  peak  of 
the  grand  range  which  Hes  six  miles  west  of  our  town. 
Only  those  who  dwell  at  the  feet  of  great  mountain 
ranges  know  how  like  a  wall  they  look,  what  sense  of 
fortified  security  they  give  ;  people  who  come  for  a  day, 
to  gaze  and  pass  by,  or  even  people  who  stay  and  paint 
the  hills'  portraits,  know  very  little.  A  mountain  has 
as  much  personality  as  a  man  ;  you  do  not  know  one 
any  more  than  you  know  the  other  until  you  have  sum- 
mered and  wintered  him.  You  love  one,  and  are  pro- 
foundly indifferent  to  another,  just  as  it  is  with  your 


332  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

feeling  towards  your  neighbors  ;  and  it  is  often  as  hard 
to  give  good  and  sufficient  reason  for  your  preference 
in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other.  But  no  lover  of  Chey- 
enne was  ever  at  loss  to  give  reasons  for  his  love.  The 
mountain  is  so  unique  in  its  grandeur  and  dignity  that 
one  must  be  bhnd  and  stolid  indeed  not  to  feel  its 
influence. 

As  I  said,  it  is  the  southernmost  peak  of  the  range 
lying  west  of  Colorado  Springs.  This  is  as  if  I  said  it 
is  the  southern  bastion  of  our  western  wall.  It  is  only 
two  or  three  thousand  feet  above  the  town  (the  town, 
be  it  remembered,  lies  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea). 
Pike's  Peak,  a  few  miles  farther  north,  in  the  same 
range,  is  nearly  twice  as  high  ;  so  it  is  not  by  reason  of 
height  that  Cheyenne  is  so  grand.  Pausing  now,  with 
my  pen  in  my  hand,  I  look  out  of  my  south  window  at 
its  majestic  front,  and  despair  of  being  loyal  to  the 
truth  I  would  like  to  tell  of  this  mountain.  Is  it  that 
its  eastern  outline,  from  the  summit  down  to  the  plain, 
is  one  slow,  steady,  in-curving  slope,  broken  only  by 
two  rises  of  dark  timber-lands,  which  round  like  bil- 
lows ;  and  that  this  exquisite  hollowing  curve  is  for 
ever  outlined  against  the  southern  sky  ?  Is  it  that  the 
heavily  cut  and  jagged  top  joins  this  eastern  slope  at  a 
sharp  angle,  and  stretches  away  to  the  northwest  in 
broken  Hues  as  rugged  and  strong  as  the  eastern  slope 
is  graceful  and  harmonious  ;  and  that  the  two  lines  to- 
gether make  a  perpetual,  vast  triangulation  on  the  sky  ? 
Is  it  that  when  white  clouds  in  our  heavens  at  noon 
journey  south,  they  always  seem  to  catch  on  its  eastern 
slope,  and  hang  and  flutter  there,  or  nestle  down  in  an 
island-like  bank  reaching  half-way  up  the  mountain  .'' 
Is  it  that  the  dawn  always  strikes  it  some  moments 
earlier  than  it  reaches  the  rest  of  the  range,  turning  it 
glowing  red  from  plains  to  sky,  like  a  great  illumined 
cathedral  1  Is  it  that  the  setting  sun  also  loves  it,  and 
flings  back  mysterious  broken  prisms  of  light  on  its  fur- 
rowed western  slopes,  long  after  the  other  peaks  are 
black  and  grim  ?     Is  it  that  it  holds  canyons  where  one 


OUR    NEW  ROAD,  333 

can  climb,  amonij  fir-trees  and  roses  and  clematis  and 
columbine  and  blue-bells  and  ferns  and  mosses,  to  wild 
pools  and  cascades  in  which  snow-fed  brooks  tumble 
and  leap  ?  These  questions  are  only  like  the  random 
answers  of  one  suddenly  hard  pressed  for  the  explana- 
tion of  a  mystery  which  has  long  since  ceased  to  be  a 
mystery  to  him,  —  ceased  to  be  a  mystery  not  because 
it  has  been  fathomed,  but  because  it  has  become  fa- 
miliar and  dear.  No  lover  of  Cheyenne  but  will  say 
that  Cheyenne  is  better  than  all  these  ;  that  no  one  of 
all  these  is  quite  truly  and  sufficiently  told  ;  and  I  my- 
self in  the  telling  feel  like  one  stammering  in  a  language 
but  half  learned,  the  great  mountain  all  the  while  look- 
ing down  on  me  in  serene  and  compassionate  silence. 
At  this  moment,  it  looks  like  a  gigantic  mountain  of 
crystals,  purple  and  white.  Every  smallest  ridge  slope 
fronting  to  the  east  or  south  is  of  a  red  purple,  like  the 
purple  of  a  Catawba  grape  over-ripe ;  every  smallest 
ridge  slope  to  the  north  or  west  is  white  like  the  white 
of  "alabaster,  and  soft  with  the  softness  of  snow.  The 
plains  are  a  clear,  pais  yellow,  and  the  spot  where  the 
slope  melts  into  the  level,  and  the  purple  melts  uito  the 
yellow,  is  a  triumph  of  shape  and  color  from  which 
men  who  build  and  men  who  paint  might  well  turn 
away  sorrowful. 

Knowing  well,  as  I  do,  just  where  among  these  crys- 
talline ridges  our  new  road  winds,  I  yet  look  up  in- 
credulous at  the  sharp  precipices  and  ledges.  But  it  is 
there,  bless  it! — our  new  uphfter,  revealer,  healer, 
nearer  link  of  approach  to  a  nearer  sky  !  The  workmen 
know  it  as  the  road  over  to  Bear  creek  valley,  and  they 
think  they  have  built  it  for  purposes  of  traffic,  and  for 
bringing  down  railroad  ties  ;  it  is  a  toll-road,  and  the 
toll-gatherer  takes  minute  reckoning  of  all  he  can  see 
passing  his  door.  But  I  think  there  will  always  be 
a  traffic  which  the  workmen  will  not  suspect,  and  a 
viewless  company  which  will  elude  the  toll-gatherer,  on 
this  new  road  of  ours. 

It  was  on  one  of  our  tropical  midwinter  days  that  I 


334  BITS  OF  TRAVEL    AT  HOME. 

first  climbed  it.  A  mile  southward  from  the  town,  then 
a  sharp  turn  to  the  west,  fronting  the  mountains  as 
directly  as  if  our  road  must  be  going  to  pierce  their 
sides,  across  brooks  where  the  ice  was  so  thick  that  our 
horses'  hoofs  and  our  wheels  crunched  slowly  through, 
up  steep  banks  on  which  there  were  frozen  glares  of 
solid  ice.  and  across  open  levels  where  the  thin  snow 
lay  in  a  fine  tracery  around  every  separate  grass-stalk, 
—  one,  two,  three  miles  of  this,  and  we  were  at  the 
base  of  the  mountain,  and  saw  the  new  road,  a  faint 
brown  track  winding  up  the  yellow  slope  and  disappear- 
ing among  the  pines. 

As  we  turned  into  the  road,  we  saw,  on  our  right,  two 
ranch-men  leaning,  in  the  Sunday  attitude,  against  a 
fence,  and  smoking.  As  we  passed,  one  of  them  took 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  said  nonchalantly,  "  S'pose 
ye  kiioiv  this  ere's  a  toll-road."  The  emphasis  on  the 
word  "  know "  conveyed  so  much  that  we  laughed  in 
his  face.  Clever  monosyllable,  it  stood  for  a  whole 
paragraph. 

"Oh,  yes,"  we  said,  "we  know  it.  It's  worth  fifty 
cents,  isn't  it,  to  get  high  up  on  Cheyenne  Mountain  .?  " 

"  Well,  yes,"  he  rephed,  reflectively,  "  'spose  'tis. 
It's  a  mighty  good  road,  anyhow.  Found  blossom  rock 
up  there  yesterday,"  he  added,  with  the  odd,  furtive, 
gleaming  expression  which  I  have  so  often  seen  in  the 
eyes  of  men  who  spoke  of  a  possible  or  probable  mine ; 
*'  true  blossom  rock.  The  assayer,  he  was  up,  an  he 
says  it's  the  real  mineral,  no  mistake,"  he  continued, 
and  there  seemed  a  fine  and  unconscious  scorn  in  the 
way  he  fingered  the  dingy  and  torn  paper  half  dollar 
with  which  we  had  paid  for  the  right  to  drive  over  what 
might  be  chambers  of  silver  and  gold. 

"  Blossom  rock,"  I  said,  "  why  '  blossom  '  ?  "  To  call 
this  particular  surface  mineral  the  flower  of  the  silver 
root  lying  below,  is  a  strange  fancy,  surely  ;  it  seems  a 
needlessly  poverty-stricken  device  for  Nature's  realms 
to  borrow  names  from  each  other. 

A  few  rods'  steep  climb,  and  we  have  left  the  foot-hill 


OUR  NEW  ROAD.  335 

and  are  absolutely  on  the  mountain.  The  road  tacks  as 
sharply  as  a  ship  in  a  gale  ;  we  are  facing  north  instead 
of  south,  and  are  already  on  a  ledge  so  high  that  we 
have  a  sense  of  looking  over  as  well  as  of  looking  off. 
The  plains  have  even  now  the  pale  pink  flush  which 
only  distance  gives,  and  our  town,  though  it  is  only  four 
miles  away,  looks  already  like  a  handful  of  yellow  and 
white  pebbles  on  a  sand  beach,  so  suddenly  and  so 
high  are  we  lifted  above  it.  We  are  not  only  on  the 
mountain,  we  are  among  the  rocks,  —  towering  rocks  of 
bright  red  sandstone,  thick-grown  in  spaces  with  vivid 
yellow-green  hchen.  They  are  almost  terrible,  in  spite 
of  their  beauty  of  color,  — so  high,  so  straight,  so  many- 
pointed  are  they.  The  curves  of  the  road  would  seem 
to  be  more  properly  called  loops,  so  narrow  are  they,  so 
closely  do  they  hug  the  sharp  projections  round  which 
they  turn  and  wind  and  turn  and  wind.  One  is  tempted 
to  say  that  the  road  has  lassoed  the  mountain  and 
caught  it,  hke  a  conquered  Titan,  in  a  tangle  of  coils. 
At  every  inner  angle  of  the  curves  is  a  wide  turn-out, 
where  we  wait  to  give  the  horses  breath,  and  to  watch 
if  there  be  any  one  coming  down.  Round  the  outer 
angles  we  go  at  a  slow  pace,  praying  that  there  may  be 
no  one  just  the  other  side.  When  we  face  northward, 
the  mountain  shuts  off  all  sun  and  we  are  in  cold 
shadow  ;  the  instant  we  double  the  outer  point  of  the 
ridge  and  face  southward,  we  are  in  full  sunshine  ;  thus 
we  alternate  from  twilight  to  high  noon,  and  from  high 
noon  to  twilight,  in  a  swift  and  bewildering  succession. 
On  our  right,  we  look  down  into  chasms  bristling  with 
sharp  rocks  and  pointed  tops  of  fir-trees  ;  on  our  left 
the  mountain-side  rises,  now  abruptly  like  a  wall,  nowi 
in  sloping  tiers.  After  a  mile  of  these  steep  ascents, 
we  come  out  on  a  very  promontory  of  precipices.  Here 
we  turn  the  flank  of  the  mountain,  and  a  great  vista  to 
the  west  and  north  opens  up  before  us,  peak  rising 
above  peak,  with  softer  hills  crowding-  in  between  ;  be- 
low us,  canyon  after  canyon,  ridge  after  ridge,  a  perfect 
net-work  of  ins  and  outs  and  ups  and  downs,  and  our 


336  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

little  brown  thread  of  a  road  swinging  along  at  easy 
levels  above  it  all.  There  is  no  more  hard  climbing. 
There  are  even  down  slopes  on  which  the  horses  trot, 
in  the  shade  of  high  pine-trees  on  either  hand,  now 
and  then  coming  upon  a  spot  where  the  ridge  has 
widened  sufficiently  for  the  trees  to  dispose  themselves 
in  a  more  leisurely  and  assured  fashion,  hke  a  lowland 
grove,  instead  of  clinging  at  a  slant  on  steep  sides,  as 
they  are  for  the  most  part  driven  to  do;  now  and  then 
coming  out  on  opens,  where  a  canyon  lies  bare  and 
yawning,  like  a  great  gash  in  the  mountain's  side,  its 
slopes  of  fine  red  or  yellow  gravelly  sand  seeming  to  be 
in  a  perpetual  slide  from  top  to  bottom,  —  only  held  in 
place  by  bowlders  here  and  there,  which  stick  out  like 
grotesque  heads  of  rivets  with  which  the  hill  had  been 
mended.  Here  we  find  the  kinnikinnick  in  its  perfec- 
tion, enormous  mats  of  it  lying  compact,  glossy,  green 
and  claret-tinted,  as  if  enamelled,  on  the  yellow  sand. 
Painters  have  thought  it  worth  while  to  paint  over  and 
over  again  some  rare  face  or  spot  whose  beauty  per- 
petually eluded  their  grasp  and  refused  to  be  transferred 
to  canvas.  Why  should  I  not  be  equally  patient  and 
loyal  to  this  exquisite  vine,  of  which  I  have  again  and 
again,  and  always  vainly,  tried  to  say  what  it  is  like, 
and  how  beautiful  is  the  mantle  it  flings  over  bare  and 
stony  places  ? 

Imagine  that  a  garden-border  of  box  should  lay  itself 
down  and  behave  like  a  blackberry  vine,  —  run,  and 
scramble,  and  overlap,  and  send  myriads  of  long  ten- 
drils out  in  all  directions,  —  and  you  will  have  a  picture 
of  the  shape,  the  set  of  the  leaf,  the  thick  matting  of 
the  branches,  and  the  utter  unrestrainedness  of  a  root 
of  kinnikinnick.  Add  to  this  the  shine  of  the  leaf  of 
the  myrtle,  the  green  of  green  grass  in  June,  and  the 
claret-red  of  the  blackberry  vine  in  November,  and  you 
will  have  a  picture  of  its  lustrousness  and  its  colors. 
The  solid  centres  of  the  mats  are  green  ;  the  young  ten- 
drils run  out  more  and  more  vivid  red  to  their  tips.  In 
June  it  is  fragrant  with  clusters  of  small  pink  and  white 


OUR    NEW  ROAD.  337 

bells,  much  like  the  huckleberry  blossom.  In  De- 
cember it  is  gay  with  berries  as  red  as  the  berries  of 
the  holly.  Neither  midsummer  heat  nor  midwinter 
cold  can  tarnish  the  sheen  nor  shrivel  the  fulness  of  its 
leaf.  It  has  such  vitality  that  no  barrenness,  no 
drought,  deters  it ;  in  fact,  it  is  more  luxuriant  on  the 
bare,  gravelly  slopes  of  which  I  was  just  now  speaking, 
than  I  have  ever  seen  it  elsewhere.  Yet  its  roots  seem 
to  take  slight  hold  of  the  soil.  You  may  easily,  by  a 
little  care  in  loosening  the  tendrils,  pull  up  solid  mats 
five  to  seven  feet  long.  Fancy  these  at  Christmas,  in 
one's  house.  I  look  up,  as  I  write,  at  one  upon  my  own 
wall.  It  has  a  stem  an  inch  in  diameter,  gnarled  and 
twisted  like  an  old  cedar, — the  delight  of  an  artistic 
eye,  the  surprise  and  scorn  of  the  Phihstine,  to  whom 
it  looks  merely  like  fire-wood.  From  this  gnarled 
bough  bursts  a  great  growth  of  luxuriant  green 
branches,  each  branch  claret-red  at  its  tips  and  vivid 
green  at  its  centre.  It  has  hung  as  a  crown  of  late 
dower  over  the  head  of  my  Beatrice  Cenci  for  two 
months,  and  not  a  leaf  has  fallen.  It  will  hang  there 
unchanged  until  June,  if  I  choose.  This  virtue  is 
partly  its  own,  partly  the  spell  of  the  wonderful  dryness 
of  our  Colorado  air,  in  which  all  things  do  as  Mrs. 
Stowe  says  New  Englanders  do  when  they  are  old,  — 
"dry  up  a  little  and  then  last." 

Still  running  westward  along  the  north  side  of  the 
mountain,  the  road  follows  the  ridge  Hues  of  the  huge, 
furrow-like  canyons  which  cleave  the  mountain  from  "its 
base  to  its  summit.  These  make  a  series  of  triangles 
piercing  the  solid  mass  ;  and  we  zigzag  up  one  side, 
round  the  sharp  inner  corner,  and  down  the  other  side, 
then  round  the  outer  point,  and  then  up  and  down  just 
such  another  triangle,  —  and  so  on,  for  miles.  The 
sight  of  these  great  gorges  is  grand :  a  thousand  feet 
down  to  their  bottom  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  thousand 
feet  up  to  their  top  on  the  other.  Looking  forward  or 
back  across  them,  we  see  the  line  of  our  road  like  a 
narrow  ledge  on  the  precipice  ;  a  carriage  on  it  looks  as 
22 


338  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

if  it  had  been  let  down  by  ropes  from  the  top.  Soon  we 
come  to  great  tracts  of  pines  and  firs,  growing  scantily 
at  incredible  angles  on  these  steep  slopes  ;  many  trees 
have  been  cut,  and  are  lying  about  on  the  ground,  as  if 
giants  had  been  playing  jackstraws,  and  had  gone  away 
leaving  their  game  unfinished.  They  call  these  trees 
"timber;"  that  is  "corpse"  for  a  tree.  A  reverent 
sadness  always  steals  on  my  thoughts  when  I  see  a 
dead  tree  lying  where  the  axe  slew  it.  The  road  winds 
farther  and  farther  into  a  labyrinth  of  mountain  fast- 
nesses ;  gradually  these  become  clear  to  the  eye,  a  cer- 
tain order  and  system  in  their  succession.  The  great 
Cheyenne  Canyon  stretches  like  a  partially  hewn  path- 
way between  the  mountain  we  are  on  and  the  rest  of 
the  range  lying  to  north  of  it.  This  northward  wall  is 
rocky,  seamed,  and  furrowed  ;  bare,  water-worn  cliffs, 
hundreds  of  feet  high,  alternate  with  intervals  of  pine 
forest,  which  look  black  and  solid  in  the  shade,  but  in 
full  sunlight  are  seen  to  be  sparse,  so  that  even  from 
the  other  side  of  the  canyon  you  may  watch  every 
tree's  double  of  black  shadow  thrown  on  the  ground 
below,  making  a  great  rafter-work  floor,  as  it  were,  from 
which  the  trees  seem  to  rise  like  columns.  Above  this 
stretch  away  endless  tiers  of  peaks  and  round  hills, 
more  than  one  can  count,  because  at  each  step  some  of 
them  sink  out  of  sight  and  new  ones  crop  up.  Some 
are  snow-topped  ;  some  have  a  dark,  serrated  line  of 
firs  over  their  summits  ;  some  look  like  mere  masses  of 
bowlders  and  crags,  their  upper  lines  standing  clear  out 
against  the  sky,  like  the  jagged  top  of  a  ruined  wall. 
On  all  the  slopes  leading  down  into  the  canyons  are 
rows  of  pines,  like  besiegers  climbing  up  ;  and  on  most 
of  the  upper  connecting  ridges  hes  a  fine  white  line  of 
snow,  like  a  silver  thread  knitting  peak  to  peak.  From 
all  the  outer  points  of  these  gorges,  as  we  look  back  to 
the  east,  we  have  exquisite  glimpses  of  the  plains, 
framed  always  in  a  triangle  made  by  sloping  canyon 
walls.  I  doubt  if  it  would  be  possible  to  render  one  of 
these  triangle  pictures  as  we  get  them  from  between 


OUR   NEW  ROAD.  339 

these  intersecting  and  overlapping  walls.  A  yucca 
plant,  ten  inches  high,  may  happen  to  come  into  the 
near  foreground,  so  "that  it  helps  to  frame  them  ;  and 
yet  their  upper  horizon  hne  is  miles  and  miles  away.  I 
have  never  seen  so  marvellous  a  blending  of  the  far  and 
the  near  as  they  give. 

Still  the  road  winds  and  winds,  and  the  sense  of 
remoteness  grows  stronger  and  stronger.  The  silence 
of  the  wilderness,  what  is  there  like  it  ?  The  silence 
of  the  lonehest  ruin  is  silence  only  because  time  has 
hushed  the  sounds  with  which  the  ruin  was  once  alive. 
This  is  silence  like  that  in  which  the  world  lay  pregnant 
before  time  began. 

Just  as  this  grand,  significant  silence  was  beginning 
to  make  us  silent,  too,  we  came  suddenly  upon  a  little 
open  where  the  wilderness  was  wilderness  no  longer. 
One  man  had  tamed  it.  On  our  right  hand  stood  his 
forge,  on  our  left  his  house.  Both  forge  and  house 
were  of  a  novel  sort ;  nowhere  but  in  the  heart  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains  would  they  have  been  called  by  such 
names.  The  forge  consisted  of  a  small  pine-tree,  a 
slender  post  some  four  feet  distant  from  it,  a  pile  of 
stones  and  gravel,  a  log,  and  a  pair  of  bellows.  The 
house  was  perhaps  eight  feet  high  ;  the  walls  reached 
up  one  third  that  height :  first,  three  logs,  then,  two 
planks ;  there  the  wall  ended.  One  front  post  was  a 
pine-tree,  the  other  a  rough  cedar  stump ;  from  the 
ridgepole  hung  a  sail-cloth  roof  which  did  not  meet  the 
walls  ;  very  airy  must  be  the  blacksmith's  house  on  a 
cold  night,  in  spite  of  the  southeast  winds  being  kept 
otf  by  a  huge  bowlder  twenty  feet  high.  On  one  side 
stood  an  old  dead  cedar-tree  with  crooked  arms,  like 
some  marine  monster  ;  one  of  the  arms  was  the  black- 
smith's pantry,  and  there  hung  his  dinners  for  a  week 
or  more,  a  big  haunch  of  venison.  A  tomtit,  not  much 
larger  than  a  humming-bird,  was  feasting  on  it  by 
snatches.  The  tiny  creature  flew  from  the  topmost 
branch  of  the  tree  down  to  the  venison,  took  a  bite,  and 
was  back  again  safe  on  the  upper  bough  in  far  less  time 


340  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

than  I  take  to  write  his  name  ;  less  than  a  second  a  trip 
he  took,  I  think ;  never  once  did  he  pause  for  a  seo  md 
bite,  never  once  rest  on  a  lower  branch :  he  fairly 
seemed  to  buzz  in  the  air,  so  fast  he  flew  up  and  down. 

"  So  you  board  the  tomtit,  do  you  ?  "  we  said  to  the 
blacksmith,  who  stood  near  by,  piling  boughs  on  a  big 
fire. 

"  Yes  ;  he's  so  litde  I  can  afford  to  keep  him,"  le- 
plied  the  blacksmith,  with  a  quiet  twinkle  in  his  eye 
and  the  cheery  tone  of  a  good  heart  in  his  voice  :  "  he 
jest  about  lives  in  that  tree,  an'  there's  generally  suthin' 
there  for  him." 

It  was  a  spot  to  win  a  man's  love,  the  spot  the  black- 
smith had  chosen  for  his  temporary  home,  the  little 
open  had  so  sheltered  and  sheltering  a  look  :  to  the 
south,  east,  north,  mountain  walls  ;  to  the  west  a  vista, 
a  suggestion  of  outlet,  and  a  great  friendliness  of  pine- 
trees.  Two  small  brooks  ran  across  the  clearing.  A 
thick  line  of  bare,  gray  cotton-woods  marked  them  now  ; 
in  the  summer  they  would  be  bowers  of  green,  and  the 
little  bridges  across  them  would  be  hid  in  thickets  of 
fohage.  The  upper  hne  of  the  southern  mountain  wall 
stood  out  against  the  sky  in  bold  and  fantastic  shapes, 
endlessly  suggestive.  That  rocks  not  hewn  by  men's 
hands  should  have  such  similitudes  is  marvellous.  I 
have  seen  photographs  of  ruins  in  Edom  and  Palmyra 
which  seem  to  be  almost  reproductions  of  these  rocky 
summit  outlines  of  some  of  our  Colorado  peaks. 

A  half-mile  farther  on  we  came  upon  the  camp  of  the 
men  who  were  building  the  road.  "  Camp  "  is  an  elas- 
tic word.  In  this  case,  it  meant  merely  a  small  pine 
grove,  two  big  fires,  and  some  piles  of  blankets.  Here 
the  road  ceased.  As  we  halted,  three  dogs  came 
bounding  towards  us,  barking  most  furiously.  One  of 
them  stopped  suddenly,  gave  one  searching  look  at  me, 
put  her  tail  between  her  legs,  and  with  a  pitiful  yelp  of 
terror  turned  and  fled.  I  walked  slowly  after  her;  she 
would  look  back  over  her  shoulder,  turn,  make  one  or 
two  lunges  at  me,  barking  shrilly,  then  with  the  same 


OUR  NEW  ROAD.  341 

yelp  of  terror  run  swiftly  away  ;  at  last  she  grew  brave 
enough  to  keep  her  face  toward  me,  but  continually 
backed  away,  alternating  her  bark  of  defiance  with  her 
yelp  of  terror  in  a  way  which  was  irresistibly  ludicrous. 
We  were  utterly  perplexed  by  her  behavior  until  her 
master,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak  for  laughing,  ex- 
plained it. 

"  Yer  see,  that  'ere  dog's  never  seen  a  woman  afore. 
She  was  reared  in  the  woods,  an'  I  hain't  never  took 
her  nowheres,  an'  thet's  jest  the  fact  on't ;  she  dunno 
what  to  make  of  a  woman." 

It  grew  droller  and  droller.  The  other  dogs  were 
our  good  friends  at  once,  leaped  about  us,  snuffed  us, 
and  licked  our  hands  as  we  spoke  to  them.  Poor 
Bowser  hung  back  and  barked  furiously  with  warning 
and  menace  whenever  I  patted  one  of  the  other  dogs, 
but  if  I  took  a  step  nearer  her  she  howled  and  fled  in 
the  most  abject  way. 

Two  men  were  baking  bread,  and  there  seemed  a 
good-natured  rivalry  between  them. 

"  I've  got  a  leetle  too  much  soda  in  it,"  said  one,  as  I 
peered  curiously  into  his  big  bake-kettle,  lifting  the 
cover,  "but  his'n's  all  burnt  on  the  top,"  with  a  con- 
temptuous cock  of  his  eye  towards  his  fellow-baker. 
It  is  said  to  be  very  good,  this  impromptu  bread,  baked 
in  a  shapeless  lump  in  an  iron  kettle,  with  coals  under- 
neath and  coals  on  the  lid  above.  It  did  not  look  so, 
however.  I  think  I  should  choose  the  ovens  of  civili- 
zation. 

The  owner  of  my  canine  foe  was  a  man  some  fifty-five 
or  sixty  years  old.  He  had  a  striking  face,  a  clear, 
blue-gray  eye,  with  a  rare  mixture  of  decision  and  sen- 
timent in  it,  a  patriarchal  gray  beard,  and  a  sensitive 
mouth.  He  wore  a  gray  hat,  broader-brimmed  even 
than  a  Quaker's,  and  it  added  both  picturesqueness  and 
dignity  to  his  appearance.  His  voice  was  so  low,  his 
intonation  so  good,  that  the  uncultured  speech  seemed 
strangely  out  of  place  on  his  lips.  He  had  lived  in  the 
woods  "nigh  eight  year,"  sometimes  in  one  part  of  the 


342  BITS  OF  TRAILL   AT  HOME. 

Territory,  sometimes  in  another.  He  had  been  mmer, 
hunter,  farmer,  and  now  road-builder.  A  very  little 
talk  with  men  of  this  sort  usually  draws  from  them 
some  unexpected  revelations  of  the  motives  or  the  inci- 
dents of  their  career.  A  long  lonely  life  produces  in 
the  average  mind  a  strange  mixture  of  the  taciturn  and 
the  confidential.  The  man  of  the  wilderness  will  jour- 
ney by  your  side  whole  days  in  silence  ;  then,  of  a 
sudden,  he  will  speak  to  you  of  matters  of  the  most 
secret  and  personal  nature,  matters  which  it  would  be, 
for  you,  utterly  impossible  to  mention  to  a  stranger. 
We  soon  learned  the  secret  of  this  man's  life  in  the 
woods.  Nine  years  ago  his  wife  had  died.  That  broke 
up  his  farm  home,  and  after  that  "  all  places  seemed  jest 
alike  "  to  him,  and  "  somehow  "  he  "kinder  took  to  the 
woods."  What  an  unconscious  tribute  there  is  in  that 
phrase  to  nature's  power  as  a  beneficent  healer. 

"  There  was  another  reason,  too,"  he  added.  "  My 
wife,  she  died  o'  consumption,  hereditary,  an'  them  two 
boys'd  ha'  gone  the  same  way  ef  I  hadn't  kep'  'em  out- 
o'-doors,"  pointing  to  two  stalwart  young  men  perhaps 
eighteen  and  twenty.  "  They  hain't  slep'  under  a  roof 
for  eight  year,  an'  now  they're  as  strong  an'  hearty  as 
you'd  wish  to  see."  They  were,  indeed,  and  they  may 
thank  their  father's  wisdom  for  it. 

Just  beyond  this  camp  was  a  cabin  of  fir  boughs. 
Who  that  has  not  seen  can  conceive  of  the  fragrant 
loveliness  of  a  small  house  built  entirely  of  fir  boughs  ? 
It  adds  to  the  spice  and  the  green  and  the  airy  lightness 
and  the  shelter  of  the  pine-tree  a  something  of  the  com- 
pactness and  deftness  and  woven  beauty  of  a  bird's 
nest.  I  never  weary  of  looking  at  it,  outside  and  in : 
outside,  each  half-confined  twig  lifdng  its  cross  of  soft, 
plumy  ends  and  stirring  a  little  in  the  wind,  as  it  used 
to  do  when  it  grew  on  the  tree  ;  inside,  the  countless 
glints  of  blue  sky  showing  through  the  boughs,  as  when 
one  Hes  on  his  back  under  a  low  pine-tree  and  looks  up. 
This  cabin  has  only  three  sides  built  of  boughs.  The 
fourth  is  a  high  bowlder,  which  slants  away  at  just  the 


OUK   NEW  ROAD.  343 

right  angle  to  make  a  fire-place.  The  stone  is  of  a  soft, 
friable  kind,  and  the  fire  has  slowly  eaten  its  way  in, 
now  and  then  cracking  off  a  huge  slice,  until  there  is 
quite  a  fine  "open  Franklin"  for  the  cabin.  It  draws 
well  when  the  wind  is  in  the  right  direction,  as  I  can 
testify,  for  I  have  made  fires  in  it.  If  the  wind  is  from 
the  east,  it  smokes,  but  I  never  heard  of  an  open 
Franklin  that  did  not. 

The  coming  down  over  our  new  road  is  so  unlike  the 
going  up  that  the  very  road  seems  changed.  The  beau- 
tiful triangular  pictures  of  the  distant  plains  are  con- 
stantly before  our  eyes,  widening  at  each  turn,  and 
growing  more  and  more  distinct  at  each  lower  level  we 
reach.  The  blue  Hne  of  the  divide  in  the  northern  hori- 
zon looks  always  hke  a  solid  hne  of  blue.  By  what 
process  a  stretch  of  green  timber  land  turns  into  a  wall 
of  lapis  lazuli,  does  the  science  of  optics  teach  } 

It  is  nearly  sunset  as  we  descend.  The  plains  look 
boundless.  Their  color  is  a  soft  minghng  of  p'-nk  and 
yellow  and  gray ;  each  smallest  hollow  and  h  U  has  a 
tint  of  its  own,  and  hills  and  hollows  alike  seem  G'mples 
on  the  smooth  expanse.  Here  and  there  patches  of 
ploughed  land  add  their  clear  browns  with  a  fine  effect 
of  dark  mosaics  on  the  light  surface. 

As  we  pass  the  bare  slopes  where  the  kinnikinnick  is 
richest  and  greenest,  we  load  our  carriage  with  its  love- 
ly, shining  mats.  Below,  on  the  soft  pink  plains,  is  a 
grave  we  love.  It  lies  in  the  shade  of  great  pines,  on  a 
low  hill  to  the  west  of  the  town.  Surely,  never  did  a 
little  colony  find  ready  to  its  hand  a  lovelier  burial-place 
than  this. 

Long  ago  there  must  have  been  watercourses  among 
these  low  hills,  else  these  pines  could  never  have  grown 
so  high  and  strong.  The  watercourses  are  dried  now, 
and  only  barren  sands  he  around  the  roots  of  the  great 
trees,  but  still  they  live  and  flourish,  as  green  in  Decem- 
ber as  in  June,  and  the  wind  in  their  branches  chants 
endless  chants  above  the  graves. 

This  grave  that  we  love  lies,  with  four  pines  guarding 


344  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

it  closely,  on  a  westward  slope  which  holds  the  very 
last  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  We  look  up  from  it  to  the 
glorious,  snow-topped  peaks  which  pierce  the  sky,  and 
the  way  seems  very  short  over  which  our  friend  has 
gone.  The  little  mound  is  kept  green  with  the  faithful 
kinnikinnick  vines,  and  we  bring  them,  now,  from  the 
highest  slopes  which  our  new  road  reaches,  on  the 
mountain  our  friend  so  loved. 


NORTH  CHEYENNE   CANYON.  345 


NORTH  CHEYENNE  CANYON. 

THREE  miles  south  of  Colorado  Springs,  on  the 
main  road  to  Pueblo,  there  is  a  road  leading  to 
the  right.  If  you  are  looking  for  it,  you  will  see  it ; 
otherwise  you  may  easily  pass  by  without  observing  it. 
This  is  the  road  which  leads  to  the  ranches  on  the  foot- 
hills of  Cheyenne  Mountain.  It  is  travelled  by  only  two 
classes  of  people,  —  the  hard-working  farmers,  who  live 
on  these  ranches  and  come  to  town  to  sell  butter, 
poultry,  eggs,  and  wood ;  and  pleasure-seekers,  who  go 
from  town,  past  these  ranches,  up  into  the  grand  re- 
cesses of  the  mountain.  For  a  mile  or  more  the  road 
is  a  lane  between  fenced  fields.  In  June  the  fields  are 
bright  with  red-and-white  vetches,  and  purple  lupines 
and  white  daisies  grow  on  the  edges  of  the  lane.  It 
follows  closely  along  the  bank  of  Cheyenne  Creek,  a 
stream  which  is  a  foaming  torrent  in  spring  and  only  a 
ittle  thread  of  a  brook  in  mid-summer.  Its  banks  are 
thick-grown  with  the  willow  cotton-wood  and  with  the 
white  plum.  When  the  plum  is  in  flower,  it  makes  the 
air  so  spicy  sweet  it  draws  all  the  bees  and  humming  in- 
sects in  the  region,  and  makes  you  think  you  must  be 
in  Araby,  as  you  drive  by.  Soon  the  lane  plunges  into 
great  thickets  of  bushes, — low  white  oak,  willow,  plum, 
clethra,  and,  above  all,  the  wild  rose.  You  wind  and 
wind  in  this  tangle  of  green  and  blossom,  looking  out 
and  up,  past  the  waving  tops  of  the  bushes,  at  the  red 
and  black  rocks  of  the  precipitous  mountain.  The  con- 
trast is  so  vivid  as  to  be  bewildering  and  lends  a  pecu- 
liar enchantment  to  the  approach  to  the  canyon.  You 
cross   and  recross    the   creek,  —  sometimes  by  a   ford. 


346  BITS  OF    TRAVEL  AT  HOME 

sometimes  by  a  log  bridge,  which  rolls  and  rattles 
under  the  horse's  feet ;  the  bushes  become  trees  and 
meet  over  your  head ;  great  bowlders  and  fir-trees 
crowd  on  the  road,  which  suddenly  ends  in  a  small 
clearing  that  is  Hke  a  green,  swarded  well,  with  high 
sides  of  rock.  You  are  in  the  canyon.  The  brook, 
still  hid  in  its  procession  of  leafy  standard-bearers, 
comes  leaping  into  this  open  with  a  loud  music  of 
sound.  For  a  little  space  further  is  a  footpath  you  may 
follow.  Then  the  footpath  also  comes  to  end,  crowded 
out  by  bowlders,  by  sand-slopes,  by  big  firs,  by  drift- 
wood from  many  a  spring  freshet,  and  by  the  rushing 
brook  to-day.  On  stones  along  the  edge  of  the  water 
or  in  it,  on  mossy  logs  and  ledges,  on  crumbling  sand- 
rims,  you  may  keep  on  in  the  brook's  road,  if  you  can. 
It  is  a  scramble  ;  but  it  is  a  delight. 

The  walls  of  the  canyon  are  black,  gray,  or  red 
granitic  rock,  with  here  and  there  sandstone.  Tall 
pines  and  firs  grow  in  clumps  at  their  base,  or  in  slant- 
ing rows,  hke  slow-climbing  besiegers  on  their  sides. 
Now  the  canyon  widens,  and  there  are  grassy  banks  to 
the  brook,  even  a  Httle  bit  of  sandy  beach  now  and  then, 
and  the  water  is  amber-colored  and  still.  Then  the 
canyon  narrows,  the  brook  foams  white  over  huge 
bowlders,  and  runs  thin  and  shining,  like  shifting 
glass  surfaces  over  great  tables  and  slabs  of  dark 
stone.  The  walls  on  either  hand  are  cloven  in  places, 
and  stand  out  in  turrets  and  towers  fifty,  a  hundred,  two 
hundred  feet  high.  You  cross  the  brook  on  logs,  — logs 
three  abreast,  but  no  one  firm.  A  huge  bowlder  in  the 
middle  of  the  stream  divides  it,  turns  it  to  the  right  and 
to  the  left,  and  tosses  each  current  in  fantastic  jets  and 
falls.  Now  the  chasm  bends  to  the  south.  Soft,  green, 
and  wooded  hills  come  in  sight,  tokens  of  the  tertile 
parks  beyond.  On  the  left  hand  is  a  level  space,  al- 
most like  a  river  interval,  so  thick  grown  with  pines  and 
firs  that  underneath  their  wide-spreading  branches  are 
great  glooms  of  shade  which  no  sun  can  reach.  The 
ground  is  strewn  thick  with  the  fir-cones  and  pine-  needles 


NORTH  CHEYENNE   CANYON.  347 

On  the  ritrht  hand  are  perpendicular  walls  of  rock,  two 
hundred  feet  high,  on  which  the  sky  seems  to  rest. 
These  walls  are  in  tiers,  which  lap  and  overlap.  Tufts 
of  green  growths  —  bushes,  grasses  —  wave  on  them, 
even  to  the  topmost  rock.  At  their  bases  are  piles  of 
driftwood;  its  shining  surfaces  glisten  like  gray  satin  in 
the  sun.  Whole  trees,  with  their  gnarled  roots  in  the 
air,  have  whirled  down  and  lodged  here.  To  look  down 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  this  canyon,  in  a  spring 
freshet,  when  the  brook  is  amusing  itself  with  this  sort  o\ 
play  would  be  a  spectacle  worth  seeing.  One  of  these 
huge  dead  trees  a  woodbine  has  chosen  for  its  trellis. 
In  and  out,  in  and  out,  wreathing  every  bough  and  branch, 
it  has  gone  faithfully  from  root  to  topmost  twig,  and  on 
no  live  tree  could  it  possibly  be  so  beautiful.  Here  is 
the  kinnikinnick,  our  one  undying  vine,  with  its  glossy 
green  lengths  looking  almost  like  running  hieroglyphs 
on  the  yellow  sand  ;  and  the  purple  clematis,  too,  which 
winds  its  rings  and  coils  so  tight  around  twigs  and 
stems  that  it  cannot  be  parted  from  them,  even  if  you 
wish.  But  you  do  not  wish,  for  the  clematis  alone 
would  not  be  half  so  fair  as  it  is  when  it  flings  out  it.s 
purple  bells  as  streamers  from  an  oak  bough  or  a  stem 
of  spiraea.  Through  the  fir-glooms  on  the  left,  gleam 
red  towers,  which  stand  behind  them.  Far  up  on  the 
south  slopes  of  the  canyon  are  more  isolated  red  rocks, 
—  pillars,  altars,  pyramids.  No  rounded  or  smoothed 
shapes  ;  all  abrupt,  sharp-edged,  jagged.  Now  comes 
a  still  wider  open,  with  amphitheatre-Hke  walls  circling 
it ;  spaces  of  green  grass  and  low  bushes  on  either  side 
the  stream.  A  few  steps,  and  we  leave  this  behind,  and 
are  again  in  a  close,  cleft  way,  whose  locky  sides  aire 
so  near  together  that,  as  you  look  back,  they  seem  'o 
shut  behind  you.  The  left-hand  wall  is  a  sheer  pre<ji- 
pice.  In  strange  contrast  to  its  massive  dark  stone 
are  the  tufts  of  flowers  growing  out  of  its  crevices  to 
the  very  top,  —  white  spiraeas,  white  columbines,  aud, 
daintiest  of  all,  the  pink  "shooting  star."  This  »-  a 
flower  that  must  belong  to  the  same  family  as  the  t.y  la- 


348  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME, 

men,  which  all  dwellers  in  Albano  know  so  well  in  its 
shady  haunts  under  the  old  ilex-trees.  Mad  violet  the 
Italians  call  it,  and  certainly  there  is  something  mis- 
chievous in  the  way  it  turns  its  petals  back,  as  a  restive 
horse  turns  his  ears.  Colorado's  "shooting  star"  is  of 
a  delicate  pink,  with  exquisite  dark  brown  and  bright 
yellow  markings  in  the  centre,  at  the  base  of  the  pistil, 
and  its  rosy  petals  all  bent  back  as  determinedly  as 
those  of  the  cyclamen.  Hanging  and  waving  on  a 
mossy  rock,  scores  of  feet  above  one's  head,  it  is  one 
of  the  most  bewitching  flowers  in  all  the  marvellous  flora 
of  Colorado. 

On  the  top  of  this  flowery  precipice  stands  one  tree, 
alone,  dead,  its  skeleton  arms  stretched  motionless 
against  the  sky.  It  could  not  have  seemed  so  lonely, 
so  hopelessly  dead  anywhere  else.  The  very  blue 
sky  itself  seems  to  mock  its  desolation,  to  resist  its 
appeal. 

The  next  change  is  an  abrupt  one.  The  sharp,  pre- 
cipitous wall  ends  suddenly,  or,  rather,  trends  back- 
ward in  jagged  slopes  to  the  south,  and  is  succeeded 
by  a  beautiful  grassy  hill,  making  the  left  wall  of  the 
canyon.  On  its  top  are  huge  bowlders  and  serrated 
rocks  in  confusion,  looking  as  if  a  high  wind  might 
topple  them  down.  The  brook  buries  itself  in  a  thicket 
of  willows ;  under  the  willows  is  an  army  of  bulrushes, 
with  their  bristling  spear-points.  Pushing  through 
these,  you  are  in  one  moment  up  again  on  a  bare  grave 
hillside,  so  steep  there  is  no  trace  of  a  path.  It  is  oi 
disintegrated  rock,  rather  than  of  gravel,  and  at  every 
step  you  sink  ankle-deep  in  the  sharp  fragments.  You 
clutch  at  tiny,  frail  bushes  above,  and  you  brace  yourself 
against  tiny,  frail  bushes  below  ;  but  the  bushes  have 
not  much  firmer  foot-hold  than  you  have  yourself,  and 
there  seems  little  to  hinder  you  from  slipping  to  the  very 
bottom  of  the  canyon.  Wedged  in  the  crevices  of  the 
rocks  here  are  the  mats  of  a  variety  of  the  prickly-pear 
cactus,  now  in  blossom.  The  flower  seems  as  strangely 
out  of  place  as  would  a  queen's  robe  on  a  rough-shod 


NORTH  CHhYENNE    CANYON.  349 

beggar.  Its  yellow  petals  glisten  like  satin,  and  are  al- 
most transparent,  so  delicate  is  their  texture.  They 
are  thick  set  in  the  shape  of  a  cup,  and  in  the  centre  is 
a  sheaf  of  filaments  as  fine  as  spun  silk.  How  was  it 
l>orn  of  this  shapeless,  clumsy,  pulpy,  dull-tinted  leaf, 
bristling  all  over  with  fierce  and  cruel  thorns  }  Well 
does  the  coarse  creature  guard  its  dainty  gold  cups. 
however.     You  will  rue  it,  if  you  try  to  pick  one. 

The  gravelly  hillside  does  not  last  long.  Well  for  one's 
muscle  and  patience  that  it  does  not,"for  a  rod  of  it  is 
as  tiring  as  a  mile  of  any  other  sort  of  scrambh'ng.  In 
a  few  moments  you  reach  a  spot  where  the  rocks  md 
the  bushes  and  the  fir-trees  conquer  and  make  a  rough 
terra  Jirjna  again.  The  confusion  of  the  rocks  in- 
creases ;  they  look  as  if  they  must  all  liave  been  hurled 
at  each  other  in  a  fight.  Bowlders  are  piled  upon 
bowlders,  and  the  bed  of  the  stream  is  a  succession  of 
tilted  slabs.  Suddenly  comes  the  sound  of  falling 
water,  and  you  see,  just  ahead,  a  beautiful  succession 
of  irregular  and  twisting  falls,  — slides,  rather  than  falls, 
one  might  well  call  them,  —  and  they  have  a  certain 
beauty  and  a  variety  of  coloring  which  a  simple  vertical 
fall  must  forever  lack.  Water  can  do  a  hundred  things 
more  beautiful  with  itself  than  leaping  off  a  precipice  ; 
but  the  world  at  large  does  not  seem  to  know  it.  The 
noise  and  spatter  and  froth  are  what  the  world  likes 
best.  Here  in  these  water-slides  in  North  Cheyenne 
canyon  you  shall  see  in  one  small  space  water  moving 
from  side  to  side  in  a  stately  minuet  motion  over  a 
many-colored  surface  of  rock,  more  beautiful  than  a 
mosaic  ;  water  gliding  inexplicably  to  right  or  to  left ; 
water  leaping  suddenly,  flinging  one  jet  and  then  no 
more  ;  water  turning  and  d(;ubling  on  itself  and  pausing 
in  daik  pools.  And,  for  sound,  you  shall  hear  in  one 
moment  a  perfect  orchestra  of  fine  notes,  of  melodies 
all  separate,  yet  all  in  unison,  any  one  of  which  is  as 
much  sweeter  and  more  delightsome  than  the  noise  of  a 
fall  as  is  the  low  ripple  of  mirth,  which  is  but  one  re- 
move from  the  silent  smile,  pleasanier  to  hear  than  the 
loud  roar  of  open-mouthed  laughter. 


35 o  BITS   OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

You  will  not  go  any  further  up  the  canyon.  It  widens 
soon  and  grows  less  and  less  wild,  till  it  opens  at  last 
into  the  fertile  Bear  Creek  Valley.  To  journey  through 
it  is  pleasant ;  but  you  will  sit  all  the  rest  of  the  day 
on  the  mossy  ledges  by  this  gliding  and  melodious 
water. 

At  sunset  you  will  go  down.  The  rocky  walls  of  the 
canyon  will  seem  to  swing  and  part  before  you,  as  you 
descend,  hke  gate,  portcullis,  bridge,  opened  by  friendly 
retainers,  to  speed  their  lord's  guest.  You  will  bear  in 
your  hands  bunches  of  whatever  flowers  you  love  best 
and  choose  as  you  walk.  I  bore  on  this  June  day, 
whose  pictures  I  have  so  faintly  outlined  here,  a  sheaf 
of  the  white  columbine,  —  one  single  sheaf,  one  single 
root  ;  but  it  was  almost  more  than  I  could  carry.  In 
the  open  spaces  I  carried  it  on  my  shoulder;  in  the 
thickets  I  bore  it  carefully  in  my  arms,  like  a  baby. 
When  at  last  I  had  set  it  triumphantly  in  a  great  jar  on 
my  south  window-sill  I  counted  its  blossoms,  and  there 
were  forty- three. 


WA-HA-TOY-A.  351 


WA-HA-TOY-A;      OR,      BEFORE      THE 
GRADERS. 

LOOKING  to  the  southwest  from  the  high  bluffs 
lying  east  of  the  town  of  Colorado  Springs,  we 
see  two  pale  blue  pyramids  outlined  ajjainst  the  sky. 
They  are  so  distinct  and  so  sharp-pointed  that,  if  it 
were  Egypt  instead  of  Colorado,  one  would  not  doubt 
their  being  chiselled  pyramids  of  stone  ;  and  when  told 
that  they  are  mountains  more  than  a  hundred  miles 
away,  one  has  a  vague  sense  of  disappointment.  They 
look  at  once  more  defined  and  more  evanescent  than  is 
the  wont  of  mountains  ;  on  a  hazy  day  they  are  marked 
only  by  a  slightly  deepened  color ;  a  little  more  haze, 
and  they  are  gone,  melting  sometimes  out  of  sight  even 
under  your  eyes,  like  a  mirage  on  the  horizon.  From 
the  delicacy  and  softness  of  tint  of  these  peaks,  com- 
bined with  their  sharp-cut  pyramidal  outline,  they  have 
an  inexpressible  beauty  as  seen  from  the  bluffs  of 
which  I  speak ;  they  enhance  and  crown  the  whole 
view,  so  much  so  that  when  people  come  home  from 
the  drive  on  the  bluffs,  the  first  question  heard  is  al- 
ways, "Were  the  Spanish  Peaks  in  sight?" 

Who  called  them,  or  why  he  called  them,  the  Spanish 
Peaks,  I  cannot  learn.  Perhaps  in  old  Castile  there  are 
peaks  of  the  same  soft  tint  and  sharp  outline  ;  but  the 
Indians  named  them  better,  —  Wa-ha-toy-a,  which, 
being  turned  into  English,  is  the  Twin  Sisters,  or,  as 
some  say,  the  Twin  Breasts. 

Gradually,  as  month  after  month  one  gazes  on  these 
beautiful  far-off  peaks,  they  take  deep  hold  on  the 
imagination.     They   seem   to  be   the   citadel-gates   of 


352  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

some  fairer  realm,  into  which  we  more  and  more  yearn 
to  look  ;  and  when  the  day  comes  on  which  we  set  out 
for  the  journey  to  their  base,  it  is  as  if  we  were  bound 
for  some  one  of  the  El  Dorados  of  our  youth. 

Starting  from  Colorado  Springs  to  seek  them,  one 
must  go  by  rail  forty-five  miles  southward  to  Pueblo, 
and  thence  fifty  miles,  still  by  rail,  farther  south  to 
Cucharas.  It  should  be  on  an  early  June  day.  Then 
the  mountain-tops  will  be  white  with  snow,  the  cotton- 
woods  along  the  creeks  and  the  young  grass  on  the 
foot-hills  will  be  of  a  tender  green,  the  dome  of  the  sky 
will  be  vivid  blue,  and  the  radiant  air  will  shimmer,  spite 
of  its  coolness. 

Set  down  at  Cucharas  at  sunset,  one  feels  tempted  to 
run  after  the  little  narrow-gauge  train,  as  it  puffs  away 
into  the  wilderness,  and  cry,  "  Hold  !  hold  !  It  was  a 
mistake.  I  will  not  remain."  The  whole  town  itself 
seems  a  mistake,  an  accident :  a  handful  of  log-cabins 
and  wooden  shanties  m  two  stragghng  lines,  as  if  a 
caravan  of  daguerreotype  saloons  had  been  forced  to 
halt  for  a  rest ;  plains  to  north,  east,  south  of  them,  — 
bare,  barren,  shelterless  plains,  with  only  the  cactus 
and  low  bunch-grass  to  show  that  the  sandy  soil  holds 
in  it  an  element  of  life.  It  must  be  indeed  a  resolute 
soul  which  could  content  itself  with  the  outlook  at 
Cucharas. 

It  was  twilight  before  we  succeeded  in  finding  the 
springless  wagon  and  the  unmated  horses  which  were 
to  take  us  six  miles  west  to  the  town  of  Walsenburg,  — 
six  miles  nearer  to  the  great  Twin  Sisters.  The  plains 
looked  vaster  with  each  deepening  shadow  ;  the  grim, 
gaunt  cactus-stalks  looked  more  and  more  fierce  and 
unfriendly ;  of  a  deep  purple,  almost  black,  in  the 
southwest,  rose  Wa-ha-toy-a,  no  longer  soft  of  tint  and 
luring,  but  a  dark  and  frowning  barrier. 

"  How  like  old  skeletons  these  cactus  plants  look  !  " 
I  exclaimed.  "  They  are  uncanny,  with  their  fleshless 
legs  and  arms  and  elbows." 

"  Heard  of  the  Penitentes,  I  suppose  ? "  replied  our 
driver,  with  seeming  irrelevance. 


WA-HA-  TO  Y-A .  353 

"  No,"  said  we,  wonderingly,     "  What  are  they  ?  ' 

"Well,  these  cactuses  are  what  they  whip  themselves 
with.  I've  seen  'em  with  the  blood  streaming  down 
their  backs." 

It  was  a  fearful  tale  to  hear  in  the  twilight,  as  we 
jolted  along  over  the  road,  we  and  our  driver  apparently 
the  only  living  creatures  in  the  region.  On  our  left 
hand  ran  the  little  Cucharas  creek,  a  dusky  line  of  trees 
marking  its  course  ;  beyond  the  creek  rose  here  and 
there  low  bluffs  and  plateaus,  with  Mexican  houses 
upon  them,  —  houses  built  of  mud,  small,  square, 
flat-roofed,  not  more  than  six  or  seven  feet  high. 
Surely,  the  native  Mexican  must  be  first  cousin  to  the 
mud-sparrow !  He  has  improved  on  his  cousin's  style 
of  architecture  in  only  one  particular,  and  to  that  he 
has  been  driven  in  self-defence.  He  sometimes  joins 
his  houses  together  in  a  hollow  square,  and  puts  all  the 
windows  and  doors  on  the  inside.  When  Indians 
attack  mud-sparrows'  nests,  I  dare  say  the  mud- 
sparrows  will  do  the  same  thing,  and  leave  off  having 
front  doors.  On  our  left  the  dusky,  winding  lines  of 
trees,  and  the  dark,  silent  hills  crowned  with  the  mud 
plazas  ;  on  our  right  the  great,  gray  wilderness  ;  in 
front  the  queer,  nasal  old  voice,  almost  chanting  rather 
than  telling  the  tale  of  the  Penitentes,  —  what  an  hour 
it  was ! 

It  seems  that  there  still  exists  among  the  Roman 
Catholic  Mexicans  of  Southern  Colorado,  an  order  like 
the  old  order  of  the  Flagellants.  Every  spring,  in 
Easter  week,  several  of  the  young  men  belonging  to 
this  order  inflict  on  themselves  dreadful  tortures  in 
public.  The  congregations  to  which  they  belong  gather 
about  them,  follow  them  from  house  to  house  and  spot 
to  spot,  and  kneel  down  around  them,  singing  and  pray- 
ing and  continually  exciting  tneir  frenzy  to  a  higher 
pitch.  Sometimes  they  have  also  drums  and  fifes, 
adding  a  melancholy  and  discordant  music  to  tiie  har- 
rowing spectacle.  The  priests  ostensibly  disappi  ova  of 
these  proceedings,  and  never  appear  in  public  with  the 
23 


354  BITS   OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

Penitentes.  But  the  impression  among  outsiders  is 
very  strong  that  they  do  secretly  countenance  and 
stimulate  them,  thinking  that  the  excitement  tends  to 
strengthen  the  hold  of  the  church  on  the  people's 
minds.  It  is  incredible  that  such  superstitions  can 
still  be  alive  and  in  force  in  our  country.  Some  of  the 
tortures  these  poor  creatures  undergo  are  almost  too 
terrible  to  tell.  One  of  the  most  common  is  to  make 
in  the  small  of  the  back  an  arrow-shaped  incision  ; 
then,  fastening  into  each  end  of  a  long  scarf  the  prickly 
cactus  stems,  they  scourge  themselves  with  them, 
throwing  the  scarf  ends  first  over  one  shoulder,  then 
over  the  other,  each  time  hitting  the  bleeding  wound. 
The  leaves  of  the  yucca,  or  "soap-weed,"  are  pounded 
into  a  pulp  and  made  into  a  sort  of  sponge,  acrid  and 
inflaming.  A  man  carries  this  along  in  a  pail  of  water, 
and  every  now  and  then  wets  the  wound  with  it,  to 
increase  the  pain  and  the  flowing  of  the  blood.  Almost 
naked,  lashing  themselves  in  this  way,  they  run  wildly 
over  the  plains.  Their  blood  drops  on  the  ground  at 
every  step.  A  fanatical  ecstasy  possesses  them  ;  they 
seem  to  feel  no  fatigue  ;  for  three  days  and  two  nights 
they  have  been  known  to  keep  it  up,  without  rest. 

Others  bind  the  thick  lobes  of  the  prickly  pear  under 
their  arms  and  on  the  soles  of  their  feet,  and  then  run 
for  miles,  swinging  their  arms  and  stamping  their  feet 
violently  on  the  ground.  To  one  who  knows  what  suf- 
fering there  is  from  even  one  of  these  tiny  httle  spines 
imbedded  in  the  flesh,  it  seems  past  behef  that  a  man 
could  voluntarily  endure  such  pain. 

Others  He  on  the  thresholds  of  the  churches,  and 
every  person  who  enters  the  church  is  asked  to  step 
with  his  full  weight  on  their  bodies. 

Others  carry  about  heavy  wooden  crosses,  so  heavy 
that  a  man  can  hardly  lift  them.  Some  crawl  on  their 
hands  and  knees,  dragging  the  cross.  Crowds  of 
woni^n  accompany  them,  singing  and  shouting.  When 
the  penitent  throws  himself  on  the  ground,  they  lay  the 
cross  on  his  breast,  and  fall  on  their  knees  around  him, 


VVA-/IA-TOY-A.  355 

and  pray  ;  then  they  rise  up.  place  the  cross  on  his 
back  again,  and  take  up  the  dreadful  journey.  Now 
and  then  the  band  will  enter  a  house  and  eat  a  little 
food,  which  in  all  good  Catholic  houses  is  kept  ready 
for  them.  After  a  short  rest,  the  leader  gives  a  signal, 
and  they  set  out  again. 

Last  spring,  in  the  eighteen  hundred  and  seventy- 
sixth  year  of  our  merciful  Lord,  four  of  these  youn^ 
men  died  from  the  effects  of  their  tortures.  One  oi 
them,  after  running  for  three  days  under  the  cactus 
scourge,  lay  all  Easter  night  naked  upon  the  threshold 
of  a  church.  Easter  morning  he  was  found  there  dead. 
What  a  comfort  in  the  thought  that  the  old  prayer  can 
never  cease  to  ascend,  "  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they 
know  not  what  they  do." 

The  twilight  had  deepened  into  night  before  the  tale 
drew  to  a  close ;  and  it  was  with  a  sense  of  grief  and 
horror,  almost  as  if  we  had  been  transported  to  the 
very  hill  of  Calvary,  that  we  drove  into  the  little  Mexi- 
can town  of  Walsenburg,  which  lies  in  the  Cucharas 
meadows,  only  a  few  miles  from  the  base  of  Wa- 
ha-toy-a. 

From  the  tragedy  we  had  been  hearing,  to  the  cheer- 
ful low  comedy  of  Sporleder's  Hotel,  was  a  grateful 
change.  A  mud-walled,  rafter-roofed,  rambhng,  but 
very  comfortable  old  place  was  Sporleder's.  From  the 
porch  you  stepped  at  once  into  the  "  office,"  and 
through  the  office  you  came  and  went  to  your  bedroom, 
and  to  the  dining-room,  by  a  mysterious,  dim-lighted 
passage-way,  or  through  somebody's  else  still  dimmer- 
lighted  and  more  mysterious  bedroom.  The  office  was 
a  bedroom,  too  ;  it  held  three  beds,  a  wooden  settle,  — ■ 
which  was  no  doubt  a  bed  also,  though  by  day  it  held 
saddles  and  hunting-gear  of  all  sorts,  —  a  desk,  and  a 
three-cornered  fire-place  built  out,  in  the  picturesque 
Mexican  fashion,  chimney  and  all  into  the  room.  They 
look  as  if  children  might  have  built  them  for  play,  these 
Mexican  fire-places,  but  they  draw  well,  and  are  won- 
derfully  picturesque.     The    mud-walled  bedroom   was 


35 6  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

not  damp  :  its  one  little  window  looked  into  a  high  Jef- 
ferson currant  bush,  and  a  cross-draught  was  estab- 
lished by  the  accident  of  a  tiny  opening  at  the  eaves, 
on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  room,  just  above  the  edge 
of  the  white-cotton  ceiling  which  was  nailed  on  the 
rafters.  Through  this  little  hole  moonlight  twinkled  all 
iright,  and  daylight  twinkled  in  the  morning  long  before 
the  sun  had  pierced  through  the  Jefferson  currant  bush. 
The  beds  were  clean  and  not  very  hard.  The  food  was 
wholesome.  One  might  easily  fare  worse  in  many  a 
pretentious  house.  The  landlord  looked  as  if  he  had 
belonged  to  the  childhood  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 
He  was  an  old  German  tailor;  he  wore  an  ancient  blue 
dress-coat,  and  a  long  black-velvet  waistcoat,  and  did 
the  honors  of  his  clean  little  mud  house  with  an  old- 
fashioned  and  pathetic  courtesy  of  manner.  He  had 
evidently  seen  much  sorrow  in  the  strange  vicissitudes 
of  hfe  which  had  brought  him  to  be  an  inn-keeper  in 
Colorado. 

Walsenburg  is  an  old  Mexican  town.  There  are  per- 
haps fifty  houses  in  it,  and  more  than  half  of  these  are 
the  true  Mexican  mud  huts,  —  mud  floor,  mud  wall,  mud 
roof ;  if  there  had  been  any  way  of  baking  mud  till  you 
could  see  through  it,  they  would  have  had  mud  windows 
as  well.  As  there  was  not,  they  compromised  on  win- 
dows, and  have  but  one  to  a  room,  and  many  rooms 
without  a  window  at  all.  These  houses  are  not  as  un- 
comfortable as  one  would  suppose,  and  by  no  means  as 
ugly.  The  baked  mud  is  of  a  good  color,  and  the 
gaudy  Roman  Catholic  prints  and  effigies  and  shrines 
with  which  the  walls  are  often  adorned  stand  out  well 
on  the  rich  brown.  The  mud  floors  are  hard,  and  for 
the  most  part  clean  and  smooth.  Gay  blankets  and 
shawls  are  thrown  down  upon  them  in  the  better  class 
or  houses;  chairs  are  rare.  The  houses  remind  on^ 
more  of  bee-hives  than  of  any  thing  else,  they  do  so 
swarm  at  their  one  small  entrance  ;  women  and  girls 
are  there  by  dozens  and  scores,  all  wearing  bright 
shawls  thrown  over    their  heads  in    an  indescribably 


WA-HA-  TO  Y-A.  357 

graceful  way.  Even  toddlers  of  six  and  seven  have 
their  brilliant  shawls  thrown  over  their  heads  and  trail- 
ing in  the  dust  behind  ;  I  am  not  sure  that  they  are  not 
born  in  them.  The  little  boys  are  not  so  much  clothed  ; 
in  fact,  many  of  them  are  not  clothed  at  all.  The  most 
irresistible  one  I  saw  wore  a  short  white  shirt  reaching 
perhaps  one-third  of  the  way  to  his  knees  ;  over  this, 
for  purposes  of  decoration,  he  had  put  a  heavy  woollen 
jacket  much  too  big  for  him  ;  thus  arrayed  he  strutted 
up  and  down  with  as  pompous  an  air  as  if  he  were  a 
king  in  state  robes;  but  the  jacket  was  heavy:  he 
could  not  endure  it  long ;  presently  he  shook  one  arm 
free  of  its  sleeve,  then  the  other,  and  then  in  a  moment 
more  dropped  the  garment  in  a  crumpled  pile  on  the 
ground,  and  with  an  exultant  fling  of  his  thin  brown  legs 
raced  away,  his  shirt  blowing  back  like  a  scanty  wisp 
tied  round  his  waist.  His  mother  sat  on  the  ground 
leaning  against  the  wall  of  her  house,  nursing  her  baby 
and  laughing  till  all  her  teeth  showed  like  a  row  of 
white  piano  keys  on  her  shining  brown  skin.  I  stopped 
and  praised  her  baby;  she  spoke  no  English,  but  she 
understood  the  praise  of  the  baby's  eyes.  By  a  gesture 
she  summoned  the  hero  of  the  shirt,  said  to  him  a  sin- 
gle word,  and  in  a  second  more  he  had  sprung  into  the 
house,  reappeared  with  a  wooden  chair,  and  placed  it 
for  me  with  a  shy  grace.  Then  he  darted  away  side- 
wise,  like  a  dragon-fly. 

All  the  women's  voices  were  low  and  sweet;  their 
eyes  were  as  dark  and  soft  as  the  eyes  of  deer,  and  their 
unfailing  courtesy  was  touching.  An  old  woman,  one 
of  the  oldest  in  the  town,  took  me  over  her  house,  from 
room  to  room,  and  stood  by  with  a  gratified  smile  while 
I  looked  eagerly  at  every  thing.  The  landlord's  daugh- 
ter, who  had  accompanied  me,  had  mentioned  to  her 
that  I  was  a  stranger  and  had  never  before  seen  a  Mexi- 
can town.  When  1  took  leave  of  her  I  said  through  my 
interpreter,  '"  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  showing 
me  your  house." 

With  rapid  gestures  and  shrugs  of  the  shoulders  she 


35^  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

poured  forth  sentence  after  sentence,  all  the  while  look- 
ing into  my  face  with  smiles  and  taking  my  hand  in 
hers. 

"  What  does  she  say  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  She  says,"  rephed  my  guide,  "  that  her  poor  house 
is  not  worth  looking  at,  and  she  is  the  one  who  is 
obhged  that  so  beautiful  a  lady  should  enter  it,"  And 
this  was  a  poverty-stricken  old  woman  in  a  single  gar- 
ment of  tattered  calico,  living  in  a  mud  hut,  without  a 
chair  or  a  bed ! 

Early  the  next  morning  we  set  out  again  to  drive  still 
farther  west.  Our  errand  was  to  find  the  engineer 
corps  who  were  surveying  the  route  across  the  moun- 
tains into  the  San  Juan  countr}..  The  brave  little  nar- 
row-gauge railroad,  the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande,  which 
is  pushing  down  toward  the  City  of  Mexico  as  fast  as  it 
can,  is  about  to  reach  one  hand  over  into  the  San  Juan 
silver  mines  to  fill  its  pockets  as  it  goes  along,  and  the 
engineers  were  somewhere  in  this  region  ;  just  where, 
it  was  hard  to  learn, 

"  Over  by  Early's,"  said  one, 

"At  the  mouth  of  iMiddle  Canyon,"  said  another. 
Nobody  knew  positively. 

At  any  rate  there  were  the  mountains  ;  we  could 
drive  towards  them  on  a  venture.  Wa-ha-toy-a  in  the 
south,  the  Greenhorn  and  Veta  along  the  west,  and 
beyond,  the  snowy,  glistening  tops  of  the  main  range  ; 
a  grand  sweep  of  mountain  wall  confronted  us  as  we 
drove  up  the  Cucharas  Valley.  The  Cucharas  bottoms 
are  chiefly  taken  up  in  Mexican  farms :  some  small  and 
carelessly  tilled  ;  others  large  and  as  well  cultivated  as 
the  poor  Mexican  methods  admit.  The  land  is  rich, 
and  when  the  railroad  opens  up  a  market  for  its  produce, 
these  farms  will  become  very  valuable.  We  passed 
many  Mexicans  ploughing  in  their  sleepy,  shambling 
fashion.  One  good-natured  fellow  showed  us  his  plough, 
and  only  laughed  at  our  raillery  about  its  primitive  fash- 
ion. It  looked  like  the  invention  of  some  shipwrecked 
man,  in  a  forgotten  age.     It  was  simply  a  long  pole  with 


WA-IIA-TOY-A.  359 

a  clumsy  triangular  wooden  keel  nailed  on  one  end  of 
It ;  on  this  was  tied  —  yes,  literally  tied  —  a  sort  of  iron 
tooth  or  prong.  This  scratched  the  earth  lightly,  per- 
haps two  or  three  inches  deep,  no  more.  This  imbecile 
instrument  was  drawn  by  two  oxen,  and  the  man's  only 
way  of  guiding  them  was  by  a  rope  tied  to  the  near 
horn  of  the  near  ox. 

Our  road  followed  the  river  line  closely.  The  banks 
were  rich  and  green  ;  thickets  of  cotton-woods  and  wil- 
lows were  just  bursting  into  leaf;  now  and  then  we 
climbed  up  the  bank  and  came  out  on  fine  plateaus,  with 
broken  table-lands,  or  "  mesas,"  stretching  away  to  the 
right  and  covered  with  pinon-trees.  On  these  were 
herds  of  cattle  and  flocks  of  sheep,  each  tended  by  a 
Mexican  herder.  You  would  take  this  herder,  as  he 
lies  on  the  ground,  for  a  bundle  of  cast-ofF  rags  some- 
body had  left  behind  ;  but  as  you  drive  past  the  rags 
flutter  a  little,  a  brown  face  appears  slowly  lifted,  and  a 
lazy  gleam  of  curiosity  shoots  out  from  two  shining 
black  eyes.     The  rags  are  a  man  or  a  boy. 

"Oh,  how  do  they  Hve  .'* "  I  exclaimed.  "What 
poverty-stricken  creatures  ! " 

•'  Live  !  "  replied  the  driver.  "  Give  a  Mexican  five 
cents  a  day  and  he'll  lie  by  and  do  nothing,  he'll  feel  so 
rich.  He'll  squat  on  his  heels  and  chew  pitlon  nuts 
from  morning  till  night.  Last  year  they  did  have  a 
hard  time,  though;  the  grasshoppers  cleaned  them  out. 
They  had  nothing  left  to  five  on  but  'chili'  [a  fiery 
red  pepper].  They  had  enough  of  that.  Even  the 
grasshoppers    won't   eat   chili." 

About  ten  miles  from  Walsenburg  we  came  to  a 
handful  of  frame  houses  scattered  along  the  creek  and 
conspicuous  among  the  light-green  cotton-wood  trees. 
Close  on  the  bank  shone  out  a  new  pine  "  meeting- 
house." ''  And  Baptist,  at  that,"  said  the  driver,  with 
a  judiciously  balanced  inflection  on  the  "at  that,"  which 
might  have  left  us  amiable,  whatever  our  predilections 
as  to  religions.  This  was  a  settlement  of  Georgians, — 
"all  Baptists,"  —  and  at  a  great  sacrifice  they  had  built 


360  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

this  meeting-house.  Just  beyond  the  Baptist  meeting- 
house lies  the  farm  of  an  old  Virginian,  a  "lan  of 
education  and  refinement,  who,  for  some  inexplicable 
reason,  buried  himself  in  this  wilderness  twenty-five 
years  ago,  when  it  swarmed  with  Indians.  He  so 
feared  that  white  men  and  civilization  would  find  him 
out  that,  whenever  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  go  to 
some  trading-post,  he  went  in  and  out  of  his  hiding- 
place  by  different  routes,  and  with  his  horse's  shoes  re- 
versed, that  he  might  not  leave  a  trail  which  could  be 
followed.  There  was  one  interval  of  eleven  years,  he 
told  me,  in  which  he  did  not  see  the  face  of  a  white 
woman.  He  still  Hves  alone  ;  a  Mexican  man,  with  his 
wife,  are  his  only  servants  ;  but  his  ranch  is  a  favorite 
rendezvous  for  travellers,  and  in  a  few  weeks  the  whistle 
of  the  steam-engine  will  resound  through  his  lands.  So 
useless  is  it  for  a  man  to  seek,  on  this  continent,  to  flee 
civilization. 

It  grew  no  easier  to  find  the  whereabouts  of  the  en- 
gineers. Everybody  had  seen  them ;  nobody  knew 
where  they  were.  We  were  twenty  miles  from  Wal- 
senburg  ;  noon  was  at  hand  ;  our  guide  had  no  farther 
device  to  suggest ;  Early's  had  been  his  last  hope  ;  we 
were  at  Early's  now,  and  neither  in  the  log-cabin  nor  in 
the  "store"  could  any  news  be  had  of  the  engineers. 
Very  reluctantly  we  were  turning  to  retrace  our  twenty 
bootless  miles,  when  with  a  low  chuckle  our  driver 
exclaimed,  "  By  jingoes,  if  that  ain't  luck  !  There  they 
be  now  !  " 

There  they  were,  to  be  sure,  twelve  of  them,  laugh- 
ing, shouting,  clattering  down  hill  in  a  gay  painted 
wagon,  coming  to  Early's  for  their  nooning.  Keen- 
eyed,  bronze-faced,  alert-looking  fellows  they  were  ;  a 
painter  might  have  dehghted  to  paint  them,  as  a  few 
moments  later,  they  had  flung  themselves  on  the 
ground  in  a  picturesque  circle.  As  bronzed,  as  blis- 
tered, as  hungry,  as  alert  as  any  of  them,  was  the 
young  Frenchman  who  three  months  before  had  seen 
nothing  in  life  severer  than  the  Ecole  Polytechni  ijue,  or 


^A-HA-TOY-A.  361 

ess  polished  than  the  saloons  of  Paris  and  Washington. 
It  is  a  marvel  how  such  men  "  take  "  to  wild  life  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains.  Perhaps  it  is  only  the  highly  civil- 
ized who  can  appreciate  the  delights  of  savagery.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  there  are  no  men  in  Colorado  who  so 
enjoy  living  in  tents  or  in  shanties,  doing  their  own 
cooking,  raising  their  own  potatoes,  and  hunting  theit 
meat,  as  do  the  sons  and  nephews  of  dukes  and  earls. 

Our  road  back  to  Walsenburg  lay  on  plateaus  which 
overlooked  the  river  interval  up  which  we  had  come.  The 
land  was  less  fertile  than  in  the  meadows,  but  the  opens 
were  grand  and  breezy,  with  exhilarating  off-looks  to 
the  north  and  e^  st.  We  crossed  the  wagon-road  which 
leads  into  the  San  Juan  mining  district,  and  saw,  creep- 
ing along  in  a  yellow  cloud  of  dust,  one  of  the  caravans 
bound  on  the  pilgrimage  to  that  shrine  of  silver,  — 
eleven  white-topped  wagons,  with  ten  mules  to  each 
wagon.  The  mules  walked  so  slowly  that  the  hne 
hardly  seemed  to  advance  ;  its  motion  looked  at  a  dis- 
tance like  the  undulating  motion  of  a  huge  dark  snake 
with  white  rings  around  its  body.  In  a  few  weeks 
these  white-topped  wagons  will  have  disappeared  from 
the  landscape,  and  in  their  stead  will  be  seen  the  swift- 
vanishing  smoke  of  steam-engines,  doing  in  ten  hours 
the  work  for  which  the  mules  took  ten  days. 

A  few  miles  out  of  Walsenburg,  I  saw,  on  a  bare  hill 
to  the  right  of  our  road,  a  strange  object  which  looked 
as  if  a  vessel  had  been  thrown  up  there  ages  ago.  and 
had  lain  bleaching  till  her  timbers  had  slowly  fallen 
apart.  I  never  saw,  cast  up  on  any  shore,  a  ghasther, 
more  weather-beaten  wreck  than  this  seemed.  I  gazed 
at  it  with  increasing  perplexity,  which  our  driver  ob- 
served, and,  following  the  direction  of  my  eyes,  ex- 
claimed, ''  Oh,  there  they  are  !  Those  are  the  crosses 
the  Penitentes  carry  at  Easter.  They  keep  'em  stacked 
up  here  on  this  hill,  and  there  wouldn't  a  living  creature 
dare  so  much  as  to  touch  one  of  them  nor  go  past  them 
without  crossing  themselves."  As  we  drove  nearer, 
their  semblance  to  a  wrecked  vessel  lessened,  but  the 


362  BITS  OF   TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

symbolic  significance  of  the  likeness  deepened.  There 
were  eleven  of  them,  some  of  them  nine  or  ten  feet 
long  :  nine  were  lying  on  the  ground,  overlapping  each 
other,  with  their  gray  bars  stretching  upward  ;  the  other 
two  were  planted  firm  and  erect  in  the  ground.  The 
sight  of  them  gave  to  the  narrative  of  the  Penitentes  a 
reality  and  an  intensity  which  nothing  else  could  have 
done.  The  gaunt  and  rigid  arms  seemed  lifted  in  appeal, 
and  their  motionless  silence  seemed  as  pregnant  with 
woe  as  a  cry. 

The  sun  was  just  sinking  behind  the  snowy  western 
peaks  when  we  reached  Walsenburg.  We  had  arrived 
at  an  important  moment  in  the  hist^/y  of  the  little 
town.  The  graders  had  just  come  ;•  the  railroad  was 
about  to  begin.  In  lazy,  sauntering  groups,  the  Mexi- 
cans were  looking  on  :  women  with  babies  in  their  arms, 
barelegged,  barefooted,  their  gaudy  shawls  close  draped, 
—  they  looked  Hke  some  odd  sort  of  fowls,  with  bril- 
liant plumage  close-furled  ;  men  leaning  in  feigned 
nonchalance  against  fences  here  and  there ;  ragged, 
half-naked  boys  and  girls  darting  about  from  point  to 
point,  and  peering  with  intensest  curiosity  at  every 
thing ;  there  they  all  were.  I  doubt  if  there  were  a 
Mexican  left  in  the  town.  The  meadow  was  all  astir ; 
wagons,  horses,  men,  stacks  of  implements,  tents,  shan- 
ties going  up  like  magic,  —  already  the  place  looked 
like  a  little  city.  Just  as  we  drove  up,  a  man  advanced 
from  the  crowd,  dragging  a  ploughshare.  Nobody  took 
any  especial  note  of  him.  He  bent  himself  sturdily  to 
the  handles  of  the  plough,  and  in  a  moment  more  soft 
ridges  of  upturned  earth,  and  a  line  of  rich  dark  brown, 
marked  a  narrow  furrow.  Swiftly  he  walked  westward, 
the  slender,  significant  dark-brown  furrow  lengthening 
rod  by  rod  as  he  walked.  His  shadow  lengthened 
until  it  became  a  slenderer  line  than  the  furrow  in  the 
distance,  and  was  lost  at  last  in  the  great  purple  shadow 
of  Wa-ha-toy-a.  The  railroad  was  begun ;  the  wilder- 
ness had  surrendered. 


THE  PROCESSION  OF   FLOWERS.         363 


THE     PROCESSION     OF      FLOWERS      IN 
COLORADO. 

I  SUPPOSE  the  little  black  boys  Avho  hang  on  lamp- 
posts along  the  route  of  a  grand  city  procession  are 
not  the  best  reporters  of  the  parade.  They  do  not 
know  the  names  of  the  officials,  and  they  would  be 
likely  to  have  very  vague  ideas  as  to  the  numbei  of 
minutes  it  took  the  procession  to  pass  any  given  point ; 
but  nobody  in  all  the  crowd  will  have  a  more  vivid  im- 
pression of  the  trappings  of  the  show,  of  the  colors 
and  the  shapes,  and  of  the  tunes  the  bands  played.  I 
am  fitted  for  a  chronicler  of  the  procession  of 
flowers  in  Colorado  only  as  little  black  boys  are  for 
chroniclers  of  Fourth  of  July  processions.  Of  the 
names  of  the  dignitaries,  and  the  times  at  which  they 
reached  particular  places,  I  am  sadly  ignorant ;  but 
there  is  hardly  a  color  or  a  shape  I  do  not  know  by 
sight  and  by  heart,  and  as  for  the  music  of  delight 
which  the  bands  play,  its  memory  is  so  vivid  with  me 
that  I  think  its  rhythm  would  never  cease  to  cheer  me 
if  I  were  banished  for  ever  to  Arctic  snows. 

The  first  Colorado  flower  I  saw  was  the  great  blue 
wind-flower,  or  anemone.  It  was  brought  to  me  one 
morning,  late  in  April,  when  snow  was  lying  on  the 
ground,  and  our  strange  spring-winter  seemed  to  be 
coming  on  fiercely.  The  flower  was  only  half  open, 
and  only  half  way  out  of  a  gray,  furry  sheath  some  two 
inches  long ;  it  looked  like  a  Maltese  kitten's  head, 
with  sharp-pointed  blue  ears, — the  daintiest,  most 
wrapped-up  little  blossom.  "  A  crocus,  out  in  chin- 
chilla fur  !  "    I    exclaimed. 


364  BITS  OF  TEA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

"  Not  a  crocus  at  all ;  an  anemone,"  said  they  who 
knew. 

It  is  very  hard,  at  first,  to  believe  that  these  anemones 
do  not  belong  to  the  crocus  family.  They  push  up 
through  the  earth  in  clusters  of  conical,  gray,  hairy 
buds,  and  open  cautiously,  an  inch  or  two  from  the 
ground,  precisely  as  the  crocuses  do  ;  but,  day  by  day, 
inches  at  a  time,  the  stem  pushes  up,  until  you  suddenly 
find,  some  day,  in  a  spot  where  you  left  low  clumps  of 
what  you  will  persist,  for  a  time,  in  calling  blue  cro- 
cuses, great  bunches  of  waving  blue  flowers,  on  slender 
stems  from  six  to  twelve  inches  high,  the  blossoms 
grown  larger  and  opened  wider,  till  they  look  like  small 
tulip  cups,  like  the  Italian  anemones.  A  week  or  two 
later  you  find  at  the  base  of  these  clumps  a  beautiful 
fringing  mat  of  leaves,  resembling  the  buttercup  leaf, 
but  much  more  deeply  and  numerously  slashed  on  the 
edges.  These,  too,  grow  at  last,  away  from  the 
ground  and  wave  in  the  air  ;  and,  by  the  time  they  are 
well  up,  many  of  the  flowers  have  gone  to  seed,  and  on 
the  top  of  each  stem  flutters  a  great  ball  of  fine,  feathery 
seed  plumes,  of  a  green  or  claret  color,  almost  as  beau- 
tiful as  the  blossom  itself.  These  anemones  grow  in 
great  profusion  on  the  foot-hills  of  the  mountains  to  the 
west  of  Colorado  Springs.  They  grow  even  along  the 
roadsides,  at  Manitou.  They  have,  apparently,  ca- 
prices of  fondness  for  certain  localities,  for  you  shall 
find  one  ridge  blue  with  them,  and  another,  near  by, 
without  a  single  flower. 

About  the  same  time  as  the  anemone,  or  a  little 
before,  comes  the  low  white  daisy,  harbinger  of  spring 
in  Colorado,  as  is  the  epigaea  in  New  England.  This 
little  blossom  opens  at  first,  Hke  the  anemone,  close  to 
the  ground,  and  in  thick-set  mats,  the  stems  so  short, 
you  can  get  the  flower  only  by  uprooting  the  whole  mat. 
It  has  a  central  root  like  a  turnip,  from  which  all  the 
mats  radiate,  sometimes  a  dozen  from  one  root.  Take 
five  or  six  of  these  home,  and  fill  a  low  dish  with  them, 
and  the  little  brown  blades  of  leaves  will  freshen  and 


THE    PROCESSION   OF   FLOWERS.         365 

grow  up  like  grass,  and  the  daisies  will  peer  up  higher 
and  higher,  until  the  dish  looks  like  a  bit  of  a  waving 
field  ot  daisies. 

Next  after  these  comes  the  mountain  hyacinth,  popu- 
larly so  called  for  no  other  reason  than  that  its  odor  is 
like  the  odor  of  the  hyacinth.  It  is  in  reality  a  lily. 
It  is  the  most  ethereal  and  delicate  of  all  our  wild 
flowers,  and  yet  it  springs  up,  like  the  commonest  of 
weeds,  in  the  commonest  of  places  ;  even  in  the  dusty 
edges  of  the  streets,  so  close  to  the  ruts  that  wheels 
crush  it,  it  lifts  its  snowy  chalice.  On  neglected  opens, 
in  pathways  trodden  every  day,  you  may  see  these  lilies 
by  dozens,  trampled  down  ;  and  yet  at  first  sight  you 
would  take  them  for  rare  and  fragile  exotics.  The 
blossom  is  star-shaped,  almost  precisely  like  the  white 
jessamine,  and  of  such  fine  and  transparent  texture  that 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  press  it  ;  one,  two,  sometimes 
half  a  dozen  flowers,  rising  only  two  or  three  inches 
high  from  the  centre  of  a  little  bunch  of  slender  green 
leaves,  in  shape  like  the  blades  of  the  old-fashioned 
garden-pink,  but  of  a  bright  green  color.  It  is  one  of 
the  purest  looking  blossoms.  To  see  it  as  we  do, 
growing  lavishly  in  highways,  trodden  under  foot  of 
man  and  beast,  is  a  perpetual  marvel  which  is  never 
quite  free  from  pain. 

After  these  three  forerunners  comes  a  great  outburst 
of  flowering  :  yellow  daisies  of  several  varieties,  yellow 
mustard,  a  fine  feathery,  white  flower,  and  vetches  of  all 
sizes,  shapes,  colors,  more  than  you  can  count.  And 
Here  I  am  not  speaking  of  what  happens  in  nooks  and 
corners  of  the  foot-hills,  in  fields,  or  by-ways,  or  places 
hard  to  come  at.  I  am  speaking  of  what  happens  in 
the  streets  of  Colorado  Springs,  along  all  the  edges  of 
the  sidewalks,  in  little  spaces  left  at  crossings,  in  un 
occupied  lots,  —  in  short,  everywhere  in  the  town  where 
man  and  his  houses  have  left  room.  It  is  not  the  usual 
commonplace  of  exaggeration  ;  it  is  only  the  simplest 
and  most  graphic  form  of  exact  statement  you  can  find 
to   say   that  by  the    middle  of  June   the  ground  is  a 


366  BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

mosaic  of  color.  The  vetches  are  bewildering.  There 
are  sixteen  varieties  of  vetch  which  grow  in  one  small 
piece  of  table-land  between  the  Colorado  Springs  Hotel 
and  the  railroad  station.  They  are  white,  with  purple 
markings,  all  shades  of  purple,  and  all  shades  of  red  ; 
some  of  them  grow  in  spikes,  standing  erect  ;  some  in 
scrambling  and  running  vines,  with  clusters  of  flowers  ; 
some  with  single  blossoms,  like  the  sweet-pea,  and  as 
varied  in  color.  They  all  lie  comparatively  low,  partly 
from  the  want  of  bushes  and  shrubs  to  chmb  on,  partly 
because  they  are  too  wise  to  go  very  far  away  from  their 
limited  water  supply  in  so  dry  a  country ;  they  must 
keep  close  to  the  ground,  or  choke.  That  this  is  a  bit 
of  specific  precaution  on  their  part,  and  not  a  peculiarity 
of  their  varieties,  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  all  along 
the  creeks,  in  the  cotton-wood  and  willow  copses,  v»^e  find 
the  same  vetches  growing  up  boldly,  many  feet  into  the 
^ir,  just  as  they  do  in  Italy,  leaping  from  shrub  to 
shrub,  and  catching  hold  on  any  thing  which  omt.s  to 
hand. 

By  the  third  week  in  June,  we  have  added  tft  these 
brilliant  parterres  of  red,  purple,  white,  and  yellow  in 
our  streets,  the  superb  spikes  of  the  blue  penstemon. 
This  is  a  flower  of  which  I  despair  to  give  any  idea  to 
one  a  stranger  to  it.  The  blossoms  are  shaped  like  the 
common  foxglove  blossom  ;  they  grow  on  the  stems  in 
single,  double,  or  triple  rows,  as  may  be.  I  have  seen 
stems  so  tight  packed  with  blossoms  that  they  could 
not  stand  erect,  but  bent  over,  like  a  bough  too  heavily 
loaded  with  fruit.  Before  the  blue  pentstemon  opens, 
it  is  a  delicate  pink  bud ;  when  it  first  opens,  it  is  a 
clear,  bright  blue,  as  blue  as  the  sky  ;  day  by  day  its 
tints  change,  sometimes  to  a  purplish-blue  ;  sometimes 
back  again  towards  its  childhood's  pink,  so  that  out  of 
a  hundred  spikes  of  blue  penstemon  you  shall  ^ee  no 
two  of  precisely  the  same  tint  ;  when  they  are  their 
deepest,  most  purple  blue,  they  look  like  burnished 
steel ;  when  they  are  at  their  palest  pink,  they  are  as 
delicate  as  a  pink  apple-blossom.     O  New  Englanderl 


THE  PROCESSION  OF   FLOWERS.         367 

groping  reverently  among  scattered  sunny  knolls  and  in 
moist  wood  depths  for  scanty  handfuls  of  pale  blossoms, 
what  would  you  do  at  such  a  banquet  as  this,  spread 
before  you  whenever  you  stepped  outside  your  door,  ly- 
ing between  you  and  the  post-office  every  day  ?  For, 
let  me  repeat,  these  flowers  of  which  I  have  spoken  thus 
far,  are  only  the  flowers  which  grow  wild  in  our  streets, 
and  there  are  yet  many  that  I  have  not  mentioned  :  there 
is  the  dark  blue  spider-wort,  which  is  everywhere ;  and 
there  are  several  yellow  flowers,  and  one  of  pale  pink, 
and  several  of  white,  I  recollect,  whose  names  I  do  not 
know;  neither  do  I  know  how  to  describe  their  shapes. 
I  am  as  helpless  as  the  little  black  boy  on  the  Fourth  of 
July,  —  I  can  describe  only  the  colors. 

Leaving  the  streets  of  the  town,  and  going  southwest 
towards  the  foot-hills  of  the  Cheyenne  Mountain,  we 
come  to  a  new  and  a  daintier  show.  As  soon  as  we 
strike  the  line  of  the  little  creek  which  we  must  follow 
up  among  the  hills,  we  find  copses  of  wild  plum  and 
wild  roses  in  full  bloom.  The  wild  rose  grows  here  in 
great  thickets,  as  the  black  alder  grows  in  New  Eng- 
land swamps.  The  trees  are  above  your  head,  and 
each  bough  is  so  full  of  roses  it  would  seem  an  im- 
possibility for  it  to  hold  one  rose  more.  We  bear  wild 
roses  home,  by  whole  trees,  and  keep  them  in  our 
rooms  in  great  masses  which  will  well-nigh  fill  a  win- 
dow. I  have  more  than  once  tried  to  count  the  roses 
on  such  a  sheaf  in  my  window,  and  have  given  it  up. 

Along  the  banks  of  the  brook  are  white  daisies,  and 
pink ;  vetches,  and  lupines,  white,  yellow,  and  purple. 
The  yellow  ones  grow  in  superb  spikes,  one  or  two  feet 
from  the  ground  ;  and  the  white  ones  in  great  branching 
plants,  six  or  seven  from  a  single  root.  On  the  first 
slopes  of  the  foot-hills  begins  the  giha.  This  is  a 
flower  hard  to  describe.  Take  a  single  flowei  of  a  ver- 
bena cluster;  fancy  the  tubular  part  an  inch  or  two 
]ong,  and  the  flowers  set  at  irregular  intervals  up  and 
down  the  length  of  a  slender  stem;  this  is  the  best  my 
ignorance  can  do  to  convey  the  idea  of  the  shape  of  the 


368  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

gilia.  And  of  the  color,  all  I  can  say  is  that  the  gilia  is 
what  the  botanists  call  a  sporting  flower;  and  I  believe 
there  is  no  shade  of  red,  from  the  brightest  scarlet  up 
through  pale  pinks,  to  white,  which  you  may  not  see  in 
one  half  acre  where  gihas  grow.  It  is  a  dancing  sort 
of  flower,  flutters  on  the  stem,  and  the  stem  sways  in 
the  lightest  wind,  so  that  it  always  seems  either  coming 
towards  you  or  running  away. 

There  is  a  part  of  Cheyenne  Mountain  which  I  and 
one  other  have  come  to  call  "our  garden."  The  pos- 
sessive pronoun  has  no  legal  title  behind  it ;  it  is  an 
audacious  assumption  not  backed  by  any  squatter  sove- 
reignty, nor  even  by  any  contribution  towards  the  culti- 
vation of  the  soil ;  but  ever  since  we  found  out  the 
place,  it  has  been  mysteriously  worked  "on  shares" 
for  our  benefit ;  and  as  long  as  we  live  we  shall  call  it 
our  garden.  It  lies  five  or  six  hundred  feet  above  the 
town,  four  miles  away,  and  has  several  plateaus  of  pine 
groves  from  which  we  look  off  into  eastern  distances 
back  of  the  sunrise ;  it  holds  two  or  three  grand  ra- 
vines, each  with  a  brook  at  bottom ;  it  is  walled  to  the 
west  by  the  jagged  and  precipitous  side  of  the  mountain 
itself.  The  best  part  of  our  "  procession  of  flowers  "  is 
always  here. 

Here  on  the  plateaus,  under  the  shade  of  the  pines, 
are  the  anemone  in  stintless  numbers,  daisies,  and  kin- 
nikinnick.  In  June  the  kinnikinnick  vines  are  full  of 
little  pinkish-white  bells,  shaped  like  the  wintergreen 
bell,  and  as  fragrant  as  the  linnaea  blossom.  Here  are 
three  low-growing  varieties  of  the  wild  rose,  none  more 
than  two  or  three  inches  from  the  ground  :  one  pure 
white,  one  white  with  irregular  red  markings,  and  one 
deep  pink.  The  petals  are  about  one-third  larger  than 
those  of  the  common  wild  rose. 

Here  are  blue  violets,  and  in  moist  spots  the  white 
violet  with  a  purple  and  yellow  centre.  Here  is  the 
common  red  field  lily  of  New  England,  looking  in- 
explicably away  from  home  among  penstemons  and 
gilias,  as  a  country  belle  might  in  court  circles.     Here 


THE  PROCESSION  OF   FLOWERS.         369 

is  the  purple  clematis  ;  a  half-parasitic  plant  this  seems 
to  be,  for  you  find  it  wound  up  and  up  to  the  very  top 
of  an  oak  or  cherry  bush,  great  lengths  of  its  stem 
looking  as  dead  as  old  drift-wood,  but  whorls  of  lovely 
fringing  green  leaves  and  purple,  cup-shaped  blossoms 
bursting  out  at  intervals,  sometimes  a  foot  apart.  How 
sap  reaches  them,  through  the  cracked  and  split  stems, 
it  is  hard  to  see  ;  but  it  does,  for  you  can  carry  one 
home,  trellis  and  all,  set  it  in  water,  and  the  clematis 
will  live  as  long  as  the  oak  bush  will. 

Here  is  the  purple  penstemon,  never  but  a  single 
row  of  blossoms  on  its  stem ;  and  the  scarlet  pen- 
stemon, most  gorgeous  of  its  family.  This,  too,  has  but 
a  single  row  of  flowers  on  its  stem  ;  they  are  small,  of 
the  brightest  scarlet,  and  the  shape  is  somewhat  differ- 
ent from  the  other  penstemons,  —  longer,  slenderer, 
and  more  complicated,  they  look  like  fairy  gondolas 
hung  by  their  prows.  I  have  seen  the  stems  as  high  as 
my  shoulder,  and  the  scarlet  gondolas  swinging  atl  the 
way  down  to  within  a  foot  of  the  ground. 

Here  are  great  masses  of  a  dehcate  flowering  shrub, 
a  rubus  I  think  I  have  heard  it  called.  Its  flower  is 
like  a  tiny  single.petalled  rose,  of  a  snow-white  color. 
On  first  looking  at  the  bush,  you  would  think  it  a  wild 
white  rose,  till  you  observed  the  leaf,  which  is  more  hke 
a  currant  leaf.  Here  also  are  bushes  of  the  Missouri 
currant,  with  its  golden-yellow  blossoms,  exhaustless  in 
perfume  ;  and  a  low  shrub  maple,  which  has  a  tiny, 
apple-green  flower,  set  in  a  scarlet  sheath,  close  at  the 
base  of  each  leaf,  so  small  that  half  the  world  never  dis- 
covers that  the  bush  is  in  flower  at  all.  Here  are  blue 
harebells,  and  Solomon's  seal  both  low  and  high  ;  and 
here  is  the  yellow  cinquefoil.  In  the  moist  spots,  with 
the  white  violets,  grows  the  shooting-star,  finer  and 
daintier  than  the  Italian  cyclamen  ;  its  sharp-pointed 
petals  of  bright  pink  fold  back  like  rosy  ears ;  in  its 
centre  is  a  dark-brown  circle  round  a  sharp  needle-point 
of  yellow.  There  are  many  more,  but  of  all  the  rest  I 
will  speak  only  of  one,  —  the  great  yellow  columbine 
24 


37"  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

This  grows  in  the  ravines.  The  flower  is  like  our 
garden  columbine,  but  larger,  and  of  an  exquisite  yel- 
low, sometimes  with  white  in  the  centre.  Tt  grows 
here  in  such  luxuriant  tufts  and  clumps  that  you  will 
often  find  thirty  and  forty  flower-stems  springing  up 
from  one  root.  Of  this  plant  I  recollect  the  botanical 
name,  which  was  told  me  only  once,  but  I  could  no 
more  forget  it  than,  if  I  had  once  sat  familiarly  by  a 
queen  in  her  palace,  I  could  forget  the  name  of  her 
kingdom.  It  is  the  golden  columbine  of  New  Mexico, 
the  aquilegia  chrysantha. 

When  we  drive  down  from  "  our  garden  "  there  is 
seldom  room  for  another  flower  in  our  carriage.  The 
top  thrown  back  is  filled,  the  space  in  front  of  the  driver 
is  filled,  and  our  laps  and  baskets  are  filled  with  the 
more  delicate  blossoms.  We  look  as  if  we  were  on  our 
way  to  the  ceremonies  of  Decoration  Day,  So  we  are. 
All  June  days  are  decoration  days  in  Colorado  Springs, 
but  it  is  the  sacred  joy  of  life  that  we  decorate,  —  not 
the  sacred  sadness  of  death.  Going  northwest  from  the 
town  towards  the  viesa  or  table-land  which  lies  in  that 
direction  between  us  and  the  foot-hills,  we  find  still 
other  blossoms,  no  less  beautiful  than  those  of  wh?ch  I 
have  spoken  :  the  wild  morning-glory  wreathes  the  wil- 
low bushes  along  the  Fountain  Creek  which  we  must 
cross,  and  in  the  sandy  spots  between  the  bushes  grow 
the  wild  heliotrope  in  masses,  and  the  wild  onion,  whose 
delicate  clustered  umbels  save  for  their  odor  would  be 
priceless  in  bouquets.  Yellow  lupine,  red  gilias,  wild 
roses,  and  white  spiraeas  are  here  also  ;  and  waving  by 
the  roadsides,  careless  and  common  as  burdocks  in  New 
England,  grows  the  superb  mentzelia.  This  is  a  regal 
plant  ;  the  leaves  are  of  a  bluish-green,  long,  jagged, 
shining,  like  the  leaves  of  the  great  thistles  which  so 
adorn  the  Roman  Campagna  ;  the  plant  grows  some 
two  feet  or  two  and  a  half  feet  high,  and  branches 
freely  ;  each  branch  bears  one  or  more  blossoms  ;  a 
white,  many-pointed  starry  disk,  in  its  centre  a  wide 
Jailing  tuft  of  fine  silky  stamens.  Here  also  we  find  a 
large  white    poppy  whose    leaves   much  resemble  the 


THE  PROCESSION  OF   FLOWERS.         37^ 

leaves  of  the  meRtzelia ;  and  in  the  open  stretches 
beyond  the  creek,  the  ground  is  white  and  pink  every 
att'ernoon  with  the  blossoms  of  four-o'clocks.  There 
must  be  several  varieties  of  these,  for  some  are  large 
and  some  are  small,  and  they  have  a  wide  range  of  color, 
white,  pinkish-white,  and  clear  pink.  Higher  up,  on 
the  top  of  the  mesa,  we  come  to  great  levels  which  are 
dotted  with  brilliant  points  of  fiery  scarlet  everywhere  ; 
the  first  time  one  sees  a  scarlet  "  painter's  brush  " 
(castilleia)  a  few  rods  ahead  of  him  in  the  grass  is  a 
moment  he  never  forgets ;  it  looks  hke  a  huge  dropped 
jewel  or  a  feather  fallen  from  the  plumage  of  some  gor- 
geous bird.  There  are  two  colors  of  the  castilleia  here  ; 
one,  of  an  orange  shade  of  scarlet;  and  the  other  of  the 
brightest  cherry  red.  But,  beautiful  as  is  the  castilleia, 
H  is  not  the  mesons  crowning  glory  :  vivid  as  is  its  color, 
the  pale  creamy  tints  of  the  yucca  blossoms  ecHpse  it 
in  splendor.  This  also  is  a  thing  a  lover  of  flowers  will 
never  forget, — the  first  time  he  saw  yuccas  by  the 
hundred  in  full  flower  out-of-doors.  It  grows  in  such 
abundance  on  this  mesa  that  in  winter  the  solid  green 
of  its  leaves  gives  a  tone  of  color  to  whole  acres. 
Spanish  bayonet  is  its  common  name  here,  and  not  an 
inappropriate  one,  for  the  long,  blade-Hke  leaves  are 
stiff  and  pointed  as  rapiers.  They  grow  in  bristHng 
bunches  directly  from  the  root ;  the  outer  ones  spread 
wide,  and  sometimes  lie  on  the  ground  ;  from  the  centre 
of  this  "  chevaux  de  frise  "  rise  the  flower-spikes,  usu- 
ally only  one,  sometimes  two  or  three,  from  one  to  two 
and  a  half  feet  high,  set  thick  with  creamy  white  cups 
which  look  more  like  a  magnolia  flower  than  like  any 
thing  else.  I  counted  once  seventy-two  on  a  spike 
about  two  feet  long.  Profusely  as  the  yucca  grows  on 
I  his  mesa,  we  do  not  get  so  many  of  them  as  we  would 
like,  for  the  cows  are  fond  of  them  and  eat  the  blossoms 
as  fast  as  they  come  out.  What  a  picture  it  is,  to  be 
sure,  —  a  vagrant  cow  rambling  along  mile  after  mile, 
munching  the  tops  of  spikes  of  yucca  blossoms.  There 
ought  to  be  something  transcendent  in  the  quality  of 
her  milk  after  such  a  day  as  that. 


372  BITS  OF  TEA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

Beside  the  castilleia  and  the  yucca,  there  grow  on 
this  mesa  many  of  the  vetches,  especially  a  large  white 
variety,  which  I  have  a  misgiving  that  I  ought  to  call 
astragalus,  and  not  vetch. 

The  fnesa  slopes  away  to  the  east  and  to  the  west  ;  \\ 
is  really  a  sort  of  causeway  or  flattened  ridge  ;  on  its 
sides  are  innumerable  small  nooks  and  hollows  which, 
catching  and  holding  a  Httle  more  moisture  than  the 
surface  above,  are  full  of  oak-bushes,  little  green  oases 
on  the  bare  slopes  ;  in  these  grow  several  flowering 
shrubs,  spiraeas,  and  others  whose  names  I  know  not. 

Crossing  the  mesa  and  entering  the  foot-hills  again, 
we  come  to  little  brook-fed  glens  and  parks  where  grow 
all  the  flowers  I  have  mentioned  ;  yes,  and  more,  for,  I 
bethink  me,  I  have  not  yet  spoken  of  the  white  clematis, 
—  virgin's  bower,  as  it  is  called  in  New  England.  This 
runs  riot  along  every  brook-course  in  the  region, — 
this  and  the  wild  hop,  the  white  feathery  clusters  of  the 
one  and  the  swinging  green  tassels  of  the  other  twisting 
and  intertwisting,  and  knitting  every  thing  into  a  tan- 
gle ;  and  the  blue  iris,  also,  in  great  spaces  in  moist 
meadows,  and  the  dainty  nodding  bells  of  the  wild  flax 
a  little  farther  up  on  the  hills,  and  the  yellow  lady's- 
slipper,  and  the  coreopsis,  and  the  mertensia,  which  has 
drooping  spikes  of  small  blue-bells  that  are  pink  on  the 
outside  when  they  are  folded  up.  And  I  believe  that 
there  are  yet  others  which  I  do  not  recollect,  besides 
some  which  I  remember  too  vaguely  to  describe,  having 
seen  them  perhaps  only  once  from  a  car  window,  as  I 
saw  a  gorgeous  plant  on  the  Arkansas  meadows,  one 
day.  It  was  a  great  sheaf  of  waving  feathery  spikes  of 
yellow.  It  is  true  that  a  railroad  train  waited  for  me 
while  I  had  this  plant  taken  up  and  brought  on  board ; 
I  nursed  it  carefully  with  water  and  shade  all  the  way 
from  Pueblo  to  Colorado  Springs,  but  it  was  dead  when 
I  reached  home,  and  nobody  could  tell  me  its  name. 
Afterwards  a  botanist  told  me  that  it  must  have  been 
stanleya  pinnatifida.  but  I  liked  my  name  for  it  better,  — 
golden  prince's  feather. 


THE  PROCESSION  OF   FLOWERS.         373 

If  it  were  possible  ever  to  weary  of  the  flora  in  the 
vicinity  of  Colorado  Springs,  and  to  long  for  some  new 
flowers,  one  need  but  go  a  few  hours  farther  south  to 
Canyon  City,  and  he  will  strike  an  almost  tropical  flora. 
Here  grow  twelve  different  varieties  of  cactus  either  in 
the  town  itself  or  on  the  slopes  of  the  hills  around  it ; 
some  of  these  varieties  are  very  rare ;  all  bear  brilliant 
blossoms,  yellow,  scarlet,  and  bright  purple.  Here 
grow  all  the  flowers  which  we  have  at  Colorado  Springs, 
with  many  others  added.  A  short  extract  from  a  paper 
written  by  an  enthusiastic  Canyon  City  botanist  will 
give  to  botanists  a  better  idea  of  the  flora  of  Colorado 
than  they  could  get  from  volumes  of  my  rambling 
enthusiasm. 

"  There  is  no  pleasanter  botanical  trip  in  the  vicinity 
of  Canyon  City  than  a  walk  beyond  the  bath-rooms  of 
the  hot  springs  to  the  gate  of  the  mountains,  up  the 
canyon  of  the  Arkansas,  and  to  the  top  of  the  Grand 
Canyon,  a  distance  of  about  four  miles.  The  grandeur 
of  the  far  mountain  summits  covered  with  eternal  snow, 
the  perpendicular  cHfls  over  one  thousand  feet  high,  the 
great  river  boiling  and  dashing  along  its  rocky  chan- 
nel, are  sources  of  excitement  nowhere  else  combined  ; 
but  to  any  one  interested  in  flowers,  their  beauty,  their 
abundance,  and  the  rare  species  that  meet  you  at  every 
step  make  the  trip  wonderfully  interesting.  Here  among 
the  rocks  are  the  most  northern  known  stations  of  the 
ferns  pellaea  wrightiana  and  cheilanthes  eatoni,  and  on 
the  walls  of  the  Grand  Canyon,  more  than  a  thousand 
feet  above  the  river,  grows  the  very  rare  asplenium 
septentrionale,  which  the  wild  big-horn  or  mountain 
sheep  seem  to  appreciate  so  much  that  it  is  difficult  to 
find  a  specimen  not  bitten  by  them.  The  syringa  (phil- 
adelphus  microphyllus)  is  growing  wherever  it  can  find 
a  foot-hold,  and  here  and  there  is  a  bunch  of  the  rare 
western  Emory's  oak,  that,  like  several  other  plants, 
seems  to  have  wandered  in  from  the  half-explored 
region  of  the  great  Colorado  River  of  Arizona.  The 
lateral  canyons   are  full  of  fallugia  paradoxa,  with  its 


374  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

white  flowers  and  plumed  fruit,  and  where  little  streams 
of  water  come  dashing  over  the  rocks  and  losing  them- 
selves in  mist,  the  golden  columbine  of  New  Mexico, 
aquilegia  chrysantha,  grows  to  perfection.  The  scarlet 
penstemon,  blue  penstemon,  the  brilliant  giha  aggre- 
gata,  spiraeas,  castilleias,  and  hosts  of  less  showy  but 
equally  interesting  plants  occupy  every  available  piece 
ot  soil.  The  beauty  of  the  flora  is  as  indescribable  as 
the  grandeur  of  the  scenery. 

"  The  abundance  of  the  four-o'clock  family  is  notice- 
able. All  of  the  nyctaginaceae  of  Colorado  are  found 
about  Canyon  City,  and  some  of  them  as  yet  only  in 
this  part  of  the  territory.  Most  of  them  are  very  inter- 
esting, and  their  beauty  forms  a  very  prominent  feature 
of  our  flora  in  June  and  July.  Abronia  fragrans  whitens 
whole  acres  of  land,  and  the  large,  conspicuous  flowers 
of  mirabiHs  multiflora  are  seen  all  over  the  town  ;  open- 
ing their  flowers  late  in  the  afternoon  in  company  with 
the  vespertine  mentzelias,  they  are  fresh  aud  bright 
during  the  most  pleasant  part  of  the  summer  day.  The 
Soda  Spring  Ledge,  from  which  boils  the  cold  mineral 
water,  is  a  locality  rich  in  rare  plants.  Here  grow 
thamnosma  texana,  abutilon  parvulum,  allionia  incar- 
nata,  tricuspis  acuminata,  mirabilis  oxybaphoides,  &c. 

"  The  common  flowers  of  Colorado  are  very  abundant 
around  Canyon  City  and  in  its  vicinity.  The  monarda 
grows  upon  the  mesas;  exquisite  penstemons  adorn 
the  brooks  ;  rosa  blanda  and  the  more  beautiful  rosa 
arkansana  are  found  on  the  banks  of  the  Arkansas  ; 
eriogonum  and  astragalus  are  numerous  in  species  and 
numberless  in  specimens  ;  the  grass  fields  of  Wet 
Mountain  Valley  are  full  of  clovers  and  cypripedium, 
iris  and  lihes  ;  the  botanist  wandering  through  the  can- 
yons of  the  Sangre  di  Cristo  range  tramples  down  whole 
fields  of  white  and  blue  larkspur  and  delicate  mertensia. 
The  summits  are  covered  with  woolly-headed  thistles, 
phlox,  senecios,  forget-me-nots,  saxifraga,  and  the  num- 
berless beauties  of  the  Alpine  flora.  And  besides  all 
this,  perhaps  no  locality  in  the  world  affords  better  op- 
portunities to  the  collector  to  fill  his  herbarium  with 


THE  PROCESSION  OF   FLOWERS.         375 

beautiful  and  rare  specimens  easily  and  rapidly.  The 
wealth  of  foliage  found  in  moister  climates  does  not 
obstruct  the  view  and  hide  the  more  modest  flowers, 
while  the  perpendicular  range  of  nearly  two  thousand 
feet  through  which  he  may  pass  on  his  botanical  ram- 
bles carries  him  from  a  climate  as  genia  as  that  of 
Charleston  to  one  as  thoroughly  boreal  as  that  of  the 
glaciers  of  Greenland." 

Not  the  least  of  the  delights  of  living  in  such  a  flower 
garden  as  Colorado  in  June  and  July  is  the  dehght  of 
seeing  the  delight  which  little  children  take  in  the 
flowers.  Whenever  in  winter  I  try  to  recall  the  face  of 
our  June,  I  think  I  recall  the  blossoms  oftenest  as  they 
look  in  the  hands  of  the  school  children.  Morning, 
noon,  and  evening  you  see  troops  of  children  going  to 
and  fro,  all  carrying  flowers  ;  the  babies  on  doorsteps 
are  playing  with  them  ;  and  late  in  the  afternoon,  as 
you  drive  through  the  streets,  you  see  many  a  Httle 
sandheap  in  which  are  stuck  wilted  bunches  of  flowers, 
that  have  meant  a  play-garden  all  day  long  to  some 
baby  who  has  gone  to  sleep  now,  only  to  wake  up  the 
next  morning  and  pick  more  flowers  to  make  another 
garden.  And  among  all  the  sweet  sayings  which  I  have 
heard  from  the  mouths  of  children,  one  of  the  very 
sweetest  was  that  of  a  little  girl  not  six  years  old,  who 
has  never  known  any  summer  less  lavish  than  Colo- 
rado's. As  soon  as  the  flowers  come  she  is  impatient 
of  every  hour  she  is  obliged  to  spend  in-doors.  At 
earliest  dawn  she  clamors  to  be  taken  up  and  dressed, 
exclaiming,  "  I  must  get  up  early,  there  is  so  much  to 
do  to-day  ;  there  are  so  many  flowers  to  be  picked." 
Coming  in  one  day  with  her  hands  full  of  flowers  which 
had  grown  near  the  house,  she  gave  them  one  by  one  to 
her  mother,  gravely  calling  them  by  their  names  as  she 
laid  them  in  her  mother's  hand.  Of  the  last  one,  a  tiny 
blue  flower,  she  did  not  know  the  name.  Looking  at  it 
earnestly  for  a  moment  or  two,  she  said  hesitatingly,  as 
she  placed  it  with  the  rest,  "And  this  one  —  this  —  is  a 
kiss  from  the  good  God.     He  sends  them  so." 


376  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 


LITTLE  ROSE  AND  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE 
SNOWY    RANGE. 

R  OS  IT  A,  which  being  turned  from  Spanish  into 
English  means  Little  Rose,  is  a  mining  camp  in 
the  silver  region  of  the  Sierra  Mojada,  in  southern  Col- 
orado. A  legend  runs  that  there  was  once  anothei 
"Little  Rose,"  a  beautiful  woman  of  Mexico,  who  had 
a  Frenchman  for  a  lover.  When  she  died,  her  lover 
lost  his  wits  and  journeyed  aimlessly  away  to  the  north  ; 
he  rambled  on  and  on  until  he  came  to  this  beautiful 
little  nook,  nestled  among  mountains,  and  overlooking  a 
great  green  valley  a  thousand  feet  below  it.  Here  he 
exclaimed,  "  Beautiful  as  Rosita !  "  and  settled  himself 
to  live  and  die  on  the  spot. 

A  simpler  and  better  authenticated  explanation  of  the 
name  is,  that  when  the  miners  first  came,  six  years  ago, 
into  the  gulches  where  the  town  of  Rosita  now  lies,  they 
found  several  fine  springs  of  water,  each  spring  in  a 
thicket  of  wild  roses.  As  they  went  to  and  fro,  from 
their  huts  to  the  springs,  they  found  in  the  dainty  blos- 
soms a  certain  air  of  greeting,  as  of  old  inhabitants 
welcoming  new-comers.  It  seemed  no  more  than  cour- 
teous that  the  town  should  be  called  after  the  name  of 
the  oldest  and  most  aristocratic  settler,  —  a  kind  of 
recognition  which  does  not  always  result  in  so  pleasing 
a  name  as  Rosita  (Tompkinsville,  for  instance,  or  Jenk- 
ins's Gulch).  Little  Rose,  then,  it  became,  and  Little 
Rose  it  will  remain.  Not  even  a  millionaire  of  mines 
will  ever  dare  to  dispute  this  vested  title  of  the  modest 
little  flower.  Each  spring  would  brand  him  as  a 
usurper,  for  the  wild  rose  still  queens  it  in  the  Sierra 
Mojada. 


LITTLE   ROSE,   ETC.  377 

I  suppose  there  may  be  many  ways  of  approaching 
Rosita.  I  know  only  the  one  by  which  we  went  last 
June  ;  goin,^  from  Colorado  Springs,  first  to  Canyon 
City,  by  rail. 

Canyon  City  lies  at  the  mouth  of  the  Grand  Canyon  by 
which  the  Arkansas  River  forces  its  way  through  \\\t 
Wet  Mountain  range.  It  is  a  small  town,  which  has 
always  been  hoping  to  be  a  large  one.  Since  the 
Arkansas  comes  down  this  way  from  the  great  South 
Park,  men  thought  they  could  carry  and  fetch  goods  on 
the  same  road  ;  but  the  granite  barrier  is  too  much  for 
them.  Bold  and  rich  must  the  railroad  company  be  that 
will  lay  a  track  through  this  canyon.  Canyon  City  has 
also  many  hot  springs,  highly  medicinal ;  and  it  has  hoped 
that  the  world  would  come  to  them  to  be  cured  of  dis- 
eases. It  has  coal,  too,  in  great  quantity,  and  of  good 
quality ;  and  this  seemed  a  certain  element  of  pros- 
perity. But,  spite  of  all.  Canyon  City  neither  grows 
nor  thrives,  and  wears  always  a  certain  indefinable  look 
of  depression  and  bad  luck  about  it,  just  as  men  do 
when  things  go  wrong  with  them  year  after  year.  It  is 
surrounded  on  two  sides  by  low  foot-hills,  which  present 
bare  fronts  of  the  gloomiest  shade  of  drab  ever  seen. 
One  does  not  stop  to  ask  if  it  be  clay,  sand,  or  rock,  so 
overpowering  is  one's  sense  of  the  color.  It  would  not 
seem  that  so  neutral  a  tint  could  make  a  glare  ;  but  not 
even  on  the  surfaces  of  white  houses  can  the  sun  make 
so  blinding  and  intolerable  a  glare  as  it  does  on  the 
drab  plains  and  drab  foot-hills  of  Canyon  City.  One 
escapes  from  it  with  a  sense  of  relief  which  seems  at 
first  disproportionate,  —  a  quick  exhilaration,  such  as  is 
producea  by  passing  suddenly  from  the  society  of  a 
stupid  person  into  that  of  a  brilliant  and  witty  one. 
You  see  at  once  how  frightfully  you  were  being  bored. 
You  had  not  realized  it  before.  Through  six  miles  of 
this  drab  glare  we  drove,  in  a  south-westerly  direction, 
when  we  set  out  for  Rosita.  On  the  outskirts  of  the 
town  we  passed  the  penitentiary,  —  also  of  a  drab  color, 
—  a  fine  stone  building.     To  liven  things  a  little,  the 


378  BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

authorities  have  put  the  convicts  into  striped  tights, 
black  and  white.  The  poor  fellows  were  hewing,  ham- 
mering, and  wheeling  drab  stone,  as  we  drove  past. 
They  looked  droll  enough,  —  like  two-legged  zebras 
prancing  about. 

The  six  miles  of  drab  plain  were  relieved  only  by  the 
cactus  blossoms.  These  were  abundant  and  beautiful, 
chiefly  of  t':ie  prickly  pear  variety,  great  mats  of  un- 
couth, bristling  leaves,  looking  like  oblong,  green 
griddle-cakes,  made  thick  and  stuck  full  of  pins,  points 
out,  — as  repellant  a  plant  as  is  to  be  found  anywhere 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  ;  but  lo  !  out  of  the  edge  of  this 
thick  and  unseemly  lobe  springs  a  many-leaved  chalice 
of  satin  sheen,  graceful,  nay,  regal  in  its  poise,  in  its 
quiet.  No  breeze  stirs  it ;  no  sun  wilts  it ;  no  other 
blossom  rivals  the  lustrous  transparency  of  its  petals. 
Of  all  shades  of  yellow,  from  the  palest  cream-color  up 
to  the  deepest  tint  of  virgin  gold ;  of  all  shades  of  pink, 
from  a  faint,  hardly  perceptible  flush,  up  to  a  rose  as 
clear  and  bright  as  that  in  the  palm  of  a  baby's  hand. 
Myriads  of  these,  full-blown,  half-blown,  and  in  bud, 
we  saw  on  every  rod  of  the  six  miles  of  desolate  drab 
plains  which  we  crossed  below  Canyon  City.  As  soon 
as  the  road  turned  to  the  west  and  entered  the  foot-hills 
we  began  to  climb  ;  almost  immediately  we  found  our- 
selves on  grand  ledges.  On  these  we  wound  and  rose,  and 
wound  and  rose,  tier  above  tier,  tier  above  tier,  as  one 
winds  and  climbs  the  tiers  of  the  Coliseum  in  Rome  ; 
from  each  new  ledge  a  grander  off-look  to  the  south  and 
east ;  the  whole  wide  plain  wooded  in  spaces,  with 
alternating  intervals  of  smooth  green  fields ;  Pike's 
Peak  and  its  range,  majestic  and  snowy,  in  the  north- 
eastern horizon ;  countless  peaks  in  the  north  ;  and,  in 
the  near  foreground.  Canyon  City,  redeemed  from  all 
its  ugliness  and  bareness,  nestled  among  its  cotton-wood 
trees  as  a  New  England  village  nestles  among  its  elms. 
It  fills  consciousness  with  delight  almost  too  full,  to 
look  ofi"  at  one  minute  upon  grand  mountain  summits, 
and   into  distances   so   infinite   one   cannot  even  con- 


LITTLE    ROSE,  ETC.  379 

Jecture  their  limits, — see  the  peaks  lost  in  clouds,  and 
the  plains  melting  into  skies  ;  and  the  next  minute  to  look 
down  on  one's  pathway  and  be  dazzled  by  a  succession 
of  flowers  almost  as  bewildering  as  the  peaks  and  the 
plains.  Here,  on  these  rocky  ledges,  still  grow  the 
gold  and  pink  cactus  cups  ;  and  beside  these,  scarlet 
gihas,  blue  penstemons,  white  daisies  and  yellow  spi- 
raea, blue  harebells  and  blue  larkspur.  This  blue  lark- 
spur is  the  same  which  we  see  in  old-fashioned  gardens 
in  New  England.  In  Colorado  it  grows  wild,  side  by 
side  with  the  blue  harebell,  and  behaves  Hke  it,  — roots 
itself  in  crevices,  and  sways  and  waves  in  every  wind. 

The  crowning  beauty  of  the  flower-show  on  these 
rocky  ledges  was  a  cactus,  whose  name  I  do  not  know. 
It  is  shaped  and  moulded  hke  the  sea-urchin,  and  grows 
sometimes  as  large  as  the  wheel  of  a  baby-carriage. 
Its  lobes  or  sections  are  of  clear  apple-green,  and  thick 
set  with  long  spines  of  a  glistening  white.  Tne  flower 
is  a  many-leaved,  tubular  cup,  of  a  deep,  rich  crimson 
color.  They  are  thrown  out  at  hap-hazard,  apparently, 
anywhere  on  the  lobes.  You  will  often  see  ten,  twelve, 
or  even  twenty  of  these  blossoms  on  a  single  plant  of 
only  medium  size,  say,  eight  or  ten  inches  in  diameter. 
When  we  first  saw  one  of  these  great,  crimson-flowered 
cacti,  wedged  in  like  a  cushion  or  flattened  ball  in  the 
gnarled  roots  of  an  old  cedar-bush,  on  the  side  of  this 
rocky  road,  we  halted  in  silent  wonder,  and  looked  first 
at  it  and  then  at  each  other.  Afterward  we  grew 
wonted  to  their  beauty  ;  we  even  pulled  several  of  them 
up  bodily,  and  carried  them  home  in  a  box  ;  but  this 
familiarity  bred  no  contempt,  —  it  only  added  to  our  ad- 
miration a  tenor  which  was  uncomfortable.  A  live 
creature  which  could  bite  would  be  no  harder  to  handle 
and  carry.  It  has  one  single  root  growing  out  at  its 
centre,  Hke  the  root  of  a  turnip  ;  this  root  is  long  and 
slender;  it  must  wriggle  its  way  down  among  the  rocks 
like  a  snake.  By  this  root  you  can  carry  the  cactus, 
and  by  this  alone.  Woe  betide  you  if  you  so  much  as 
attempt   to  tug,  or  lift,  or  carry  it  by  its  sides.     You 


380  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

must  pry  it  up  with  a  stick  or  trowel  till  you  can  reach 
the  root,  grasp  it  by  that  handle,  and  carry  it  bottom 
side  up,  held  off  at  a  judicious  distance  from  your  legs. 

At  last  we  had  chmbed  up  to  the  last  ledge,  rounded 
the  last  point.  Suddenly  we  saw  before  us,  many  hun- 
dred feet  below  us,  a  green  well,  into  the  mouth  of 
which  we  looked  down.  There  is  nothing  but  a  well  to 
which  I  can  compare  the  first  view  from  these  heights 
of  the  opening  of  Oak  Creek  Canyon.  The  sides  of 
the  well  slant  outward.  Perhaps  it  is  more  like  a  huge 
funnel,  little  end  down.  The  sun  poured  into  these 
green  depths,  so  full  and  warm  that  each  needle  on  the 
fir-trees  glittered,  and  a  fine  aromatic  scent  arose,  as  if 
spices  were  being  brewed  there.  One  small  house 
stood  in  the  clearing.  It  was  only  a  rough-built  thing, 
of  unpainted  pine  ;  but  Colorado  pine  is  as  yellow  as 
gold,  and  if  you  do  not  know  that  it  is  pine,  you  might 
take  it,  at  a  little  distance,  for  some  rare  and  gleaming 
material  which  nobody  but  kings  could  afford  to  make 
houses  of. 

Down  into  this  green  well  we  dashed,  on  precipitous 
ledges  as  steep  as  that  we  had  climbed.  Once  down  at 
the  bottom  of  the  well,  we  stopped  to  look  up  and  back. 
It  seemed  a  marvel  that  there  should  be  a  way  in  or 
out.  There  are  but  two  :  the  way  we  had  come,  scaling 
the  ledges ;  and  the  way  we  were  to  go,  keeping  close 
to  Oak  Creek.  Close  indeed  !  The  road  clings  to  the 
creek  as  one  blind  might  cHng  to  a  rope  ;  for  miles  and 
miles  they  go  hand  in  hand,  cross  and  recross  and 
change  places,  hke  partners  in  a  dance,  only  to  come 
again  side  by  side.  It  would  take  botany  and  geology, 
and  painting  as  well,  to  tell  the  truth  of  this  exquisite 
Oak  Creek  Canyon.  Its  sides  were  a  tangle  of  oak, 
beeches,  willows,  clematis,  green-brier,  and  wild  rose  ; 
underneath  these,  carpets  of  white  violets  and  blue,  yel- 
low daisies  and  white,  and  great  spaces  of  an  orange- 
colored  flower  I  never  saw  before,  which  looked  like  a 
lantana;  a  rich  purple  blossom  also,  for  which  I  have 
neither  name  nor  similitude.     Above  these  banks  and 


LITTLE  ROSE,    ETC.  3^1 

waving  walls  of  flowers,  were  the  immovable  walls  of 
rock,  now  in  precipices,  now  in  piles  of  bowlders,  now 
in  mountain-like  masses.  Often  the  canyon  widens, 
and  encloses,  now  a  few  acres  of  rich  meadow-land, 
where  a  ranchman  has  built  himself  a  little  house,  and 
begun  a  farm  ;  now  a  desolate  and  arid  tract,  on  which 
no  human  being  will  ever  live.  At  all  these  openings 
there  are  glimpses  of  snowy  peaks  to  the  right  and  \o 
the  left.  The  road  is  literally  in  the  mountains.  At 
last,  —  and  at  last  means  nearly  at  sunset,  — we  reached 
the  end  of  the  canyon.  It  had  widened  and  widened 
until,  imperceptibly,  it  had  ceased,  and  we  were  out  in  a 
vast  open,  with  limitless  distances  stretching  away  in 
all  directions.  We  were  on  a  great  plateau  ;  we  had 
climbed  around,  through,  and  come  out  on  top  of,  the 
Sierra  Mojada.  We  were  on  a  plateau,  yet  the  plateau 
was  broken  and  uneven,  heaved  up  into  vast,  billowy 
ovals  and  circles,  which  sometimes  sharpened  into 
ridges  and  were  separated  by  ravines.  It  was  a  tenant- 
less,  soundless,  well-nigh  trackless  wilderness.  Oui 
road  had  forsaken  the  creek,  and  there  was  no  longer 
any  guide  to  Rosita.  Now  and  then  we  came  to  roads 
branching  to  right  or  left ;  no  guide-posts  told  their 
destination,  and  in  the  silence  and  forsaken  emptiness  of 
these  great  spaces,  all  roads  seemed  alike  inexplicable. 
In  the  west,  a  long,  serrated  line  of  snow-topped  summits 
shone  against  the  red  sky.  This  was  the  grand  Sangre 
di  Cristo  range,  and  by  this  we  might  partly  know 
which   way   lay    Rosita. 

By  a  hesitating  instinct,  and  not  in  any  certainty, 
we  groped  along  in  that  labyrinth  of  billowy  hills  and 
ravines,  twilight  settling  fast  upon  the  scene,  and  the 
vastness  and  the  loneliness  growing  vaster  and  more 
lonely  with  each  gathering  shadow. 

We  were  an  hour  loo  late.  We  had  lingered  too  long 
among  the  flowers.  Had  we  come  out  on  this  plateau 
in  time  to  see  the  marshaUing  of  the  sunset,  we  should 
have  looked  down  on  Rosita  all  aglow  with  its  reflec- 
tion, and   have   seen  the  great  Wet  Mountain  valley 


382  BITS  OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

below  like  one  long  prism  of  emerald  laid  at  the  feet 
of  the  mountains  which  are  called  by  the  name  of  the 
"Blood  of  Christ." 

It  was  dark  when  we  saw  the  Rosita  lights  ahead, 
and  there  was  a  tone  of  unconfessed  relief  in  the  voice 
with  which  my  companion  said  : 

"  Ha  !  there  is  Rosita  now  !  " 

I  think  if  I  had  driven  down  into  a  deep  burrow  of 
glow-worms  in  Brobdingnag,  I  should  have  had  about 
the  same  sensations  I  had  as  we  crept  down  into  the 
black  twinkling  gulches  of  Rosita.  When  I  saw  them 
by  daylight,  I  understood  how  they  looked  so  weird  by 
night,  but  at  my  first  view  of  them  they  seemed  uncanny 
indeed.  The  shifting  forms  of  the  miners  seemed  un- 
humanly  grotesque,  and  their  voices  sounded  strange 
and  elfish. 

"  The  House  of  the  Snowy  Range,"  they  all  replied, 
as  we  asked  for  the  name  of  the  best  inn.  "  That's  the 
one  you'd  like  best.     Strangers  always  go  there." 

"  The  House  of  the  Snowy  Range  "  was  simple  enough 
English,  I  perceived,  the  next  morning,  but  that  night 
it  sounded  to  me  mysterious  and  half  terrifying,  as  if 
they  had  said,  "  Palace  of  the  Ice  King,"  or,  "  Home 
of  the  Spirits  of  the  Frost.  " 

Never  was  a  house  better  named  than  the  House  of 
the  Snowy  Range.  It  is  only  an  unpainted  pine  house, 
two  stories  high,  built  in  the  roughest  way,  and  most 
scantily  furnished.  Considered  only  as  a  house,  it  is 
undeniably  bare  and  forlorn;  but  it  is  never  to  be  con- 
sidered only  as  a  house.  It  is  the  House  of  the  Snowy 
Rancje.  That  means  that  as  you  sit  on  the  roofless, 
unrailed,  unplaned  board  piazza,  you  see  in  the  west' the 
great  Sangre  di  Cristo  range,  —  more  peaks  than  you 
would  think  of  counting,  more  peaks  than  you  could 
count  if  you  tried,  for  they  are  so  dazzling  white  that 
they  blind  the  eye  which  looks  too  long  and  too  stead- 
ily at  them.  These  peaks  range  from  ten  thousand  to 
fifteen  thousand  feet  in  height ;  they  are  all  sharp-pointed 
and  sharp-lined  to  the  base  :  no  curves,  no  confusion  of 


LITTLE    ROSE,   ETC.  3^3 

over-lapping  outlines.  Of  all  the  myriad  peaks,  lesser 
and  2:reaten  each  one  is  distinct ;  the  upper  line  made 
by  the  highest  summits  against  the  sky  is  sharply  ser- 
rated, as  if  it  were  the  teeth  of  a  colossal  saw  ;  the 
whole  front,  as  shown  sloping  to  the  east,  is  still  a  sur- 
face of  sharp,  distinct,  pyramtdal  peaks,  wedged  in  with 
each  other  in  wonderful  tiers  and  groupings.  From  the 
piazza  .if  the  House  of  the  Snowy  Range  to  the  base  ol 
the  nearest  of  these  peaks  is  only  five  miles  ;  but  you 
look  over  at  them  through  so  marvellous  a  perspective 
that  they  seem  sometimes  nearer,  sometimes  much  far- 
ther. They  lie  the  other  side  of  the  great  Wet  Moun- 
tain valley.  The  House  of  the  Snowy  Range  is  one 
thousand  feet  above  this  valley,  and  gets  its  view  of  it 
between  two  near  and  rounding  hills.  From  the  piazza, 
therefore,  you  look  at  the  Sangre  di  Cristo  peaks  across 
the  mouth,  as  it  were,  of  a  huge,  oval,  emerald  well,  one 
thousand  feet  deep,  yet  illuminated  with  the  clearest 
sunlight.  It  is  an  effect  which  can  never  be  described. 
I  am  humihated  as  I  recall  it  and  re-read  these  last  few 
sentences.  I  think  it  would  be  the  despair  of  the  great- 
est painter  that  ever  lived.  What  use,  then,  are  words 
to  convey  it  ? 

The  Wet  Mountain  valley,  or  park,  is  thirty  miles 
long  and  from  four  to  five  wide.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
fertile  spots  in  Colorado.  In  July  the  meadow  grasses 
grow  higher  than  a  man's  knee,  and  the  hill  slopes  are 
carpeted  with  flowers.  It  is  full  of  little  streams  and 
never-failing  springs,  fed  from  the  snows  on  the  moun- 
tain wall  to  the  west.  Here  are  large  farms,  well  tilled 
and  fenced  in,  and  with  comfortable  houses.  The  creeks 
are  full  of  trout,  and  the  mountain  slopes  are  full  of  game. 
It  ought  to  be  a  paradise  coveted  and  sought  for  ;  but  the 
sound  of  the  pickaxe  from  the  hills  above  them  reaches 
the  ears  of  the  farmers,  and  makes  them  discontented 
with  their  slower  gains.  Man  after  man  they  are  drawn 
away  by  the  treacherous  lure,  and  the  broad,  beautiful 
valley  is  still  but  thinly  settled.  This  is  a  mistake  ;  but 
it  is  a  mistake  that  is  destined  to  go  on  repeating  itself 


384  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

for  ever  in  all  mining  countries.  The  contagion  of  the 
haste  to  be  rich  is  as  deadly  as  the  contagion  of  a  dis- 
ease, and  it  is  too  impatient  to  take  note  of  facts  that 
might  stay  its  fever.  It  is  a  simple  matter  of  statistics, 
for  instance,  that  in  the  regions  of  Georgetown  and 
Central  City  the  average  miner  is  poor,  while  the  man 
who  sells  him  potatoes  is  well  off.  Yet  for  one  man 
who  will  plant  potatoes,  twenty  will  go  into  a  mine. 

I  am  not  sure,  however,  that  it  is  wholly  the  lure  of 
silver  which  draws  men  up  from  the  green  farms  of  Wet 
Mountain  valley  to  the  hills  of  Rosita.  It  might  well 
be  the  spell  of  the  little  place  itself.  Fancy  a  half  dozen 
high,  conical  hills,  meeting  at  their  bases,  but  sloping 
fast  and  far  enough  back  to  let  their  valleys  be  sunny 
and  open ;  fancy  these  hills  green  to  the  very  top,  so 
that  cattle  go  grazing  higher  and  higher,  till  at  the  very 
summit  they  look  no  bigger  than  flies  ;  fancy  these  hills 
shaded  here  and  there  with  groves  of  pines  and  firs,  so 
that  one  need  never  walk  too  far  without  shade  ;  fancy 
between  five  and  six  hundred  little  houses,  chiefly  of 
the  shining  yellow  pine,  scattered  irregularly  over  these 
hill-sides  ;  remember  that  from  the  door-ways  and  win- 
dows of  these  houses  a  man  may  look  oflf  on  the  view 
I  have  described,  —  across  a  green  valley  one  thousand 
feet  below  him,  up  to  a  range  of  snow-topped  mountains 
fifteen  thousand  feet  above  him,  —  and  does  it  not  seem 
natural  to  love  Rosita  ?  Another  most  picturesque  fig- 
ure in  the  landscape  is  the  contrast  of  color  produced 
by  the  glittering  piles  of  quartz  thrown  up  at  the  mouths 
of  the  mines.  There  are  over  three  hundred  of  these 
mines  ;  they  are  dotted  over  the  hill-sides,  and  each 
mine  has  its  great  pyramid  of  loose  stone,  which  shines 
in  the  sun  and  is  of  a  beautiful  silvery  gray  color.  The 
names  ofthese  mines  are  well-nigh  incredible,  and  produce 
most  bewildering  elTects  when  one  hears  them  on  every 
hand  in  familiar  conversation.  "  Leviathan,"  "  Lucille," 
"Columbus,"  ''Hebe,"  "  EHzabeth,"  "Essex,""  Hum- 
boldt," "Buccaneer,"  "Montezuma,"  "Ferdinand," 
*•  Sunset,"  "  Bald  Hornet,"  "  Silver  Wing,"  "  Evening 


LITTLE  ROSE,   ETC.  3^5 

Star,"  and  "  Hell  and  Six,"  are  a  tew  of  them.  Surely 
they  indicate  an  amount  and  variety  of  taste  and  re- 
search very  remarkable  to  be  found  in  a  small  mining 
community. 

On  the  morning  after  our  arrival,  we  drove  down  into 
Wet  Alountain  valley,  crossed  it,  and  climbed  high  up 
on  one  of  the  lower  peaks  of  the  Sangre  di  Cristo  range. 
From  this  point  we  looked  back  on  the  Sierra  Mojada; 
it  was  a  sea  of  green  mountain-tops,  not  a  bare  or  rocky 
summit  among  them.  Rosita  was  out  of  sight,  and, 
looking  at  its  close-set  hills,  one  who  did  not  know 
would  have  said  there  was  no  room  for  a  town  there. 

At  our  feet  grew  white  strawberry-blossoms,  the  low 
Solomon's  seal,  and  the  dainty  wild  rose,  as  lovely,  as 
perfect,  and  apparently  as  glad  here,  ten  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea,  as  they  seem  on  a  spring  morning  in  New 
England's  hills  and  woods. 

Finding  one's  native  flowers  thousands  of  miles  away 
from  home  seems  to  annihilate  distance.  To  be  trans- 
planted seems  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 
Exile  is  not  exile,  if  it  be  to  a  country  where  the  wild 
rose  can  grow  and  a  Snowy  Range  give  benedictioB. 


386  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 


A   NEW   ANVIL   CHORUS. 

EVER  since  men  began  to  dig  for  silver  and  gold  in 
Colorado,  one  of  the  many  hard  things  they  have  had 
to  do,  has  been  the  journeying  into  the  rich  silver  re- 
gions of  the  San  Juan  country.  The  great  Sangre  di 
Cristo  range,  with  its  uncounted  peaks,  all  from  twelve 
to  fifteen  thousand  feet  high,  is  a  barrier  which  only 
seekers  after  gold  or  after  liberty  would  have  courage 
to  cross.  One  of  the  most  picturesque  sights  which 
the  traveller  in  southern  Colorado,  during  the  past  two 
or  three  years,  has  seen,  has  been  the  groups  of  white- 
topped  wagons  creeping  westward  toward  the  passes  of 
this  range;  sometimes  thirty  or  forty  together,  each 
wagon  drawn  by  ten,  fifteen,  or  even  twenty  mules  ;  the 
slow-moving  processions  look  like  caravan  lines  in  a 
desert ;  two,  three,  four  weeks  on  the  road,  carrying  in 
people  by  households ;  carrying  in  food,  and  bringing 
out  silver  by  the  ton  ;  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth, 
patient  men  and  patient  beasts  have  been  toiling  every 
summer  from  June  to  October. 

This  sort  of  thing  does  not  go  on  for  many  years 
before  a  railroad  comes  to  the  rescue.  Engineering 
triumphs  where  brute  force  merely  evades  ;  the  steam- 
engine  has  stronger  lungs  than  mules  or  men  ;  and  the 
journey  which  was  counted  by  weeks  is  made  in  hours. 
Such  a  feat  as  this,  the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande  Rail- 
road (narrow  gauge)  is  now  performing  in  Colorado 
A  little  more  than  a  year  ago,  I  saw  the  ploughshare  cut 
the  first  furrow  for  its  track  through  the  Cucharas 
meadows  at  foot  of  the  Spanish  Peaks.  One  day  last 
week  I  looked  out  from  car  windows  a.>  we  whTled  past 


A   NEW  ANVIL    CHORUS.  3^7 

the  same  spot ;  a  little  town  stood  where  then  was  wil- 
derness, and  on  either  side  of  our  road  were  acres  of 
sunflowers  whose  brown-centred  disks  of  yellow  looked 
like  trembling  faces  still  astonished  at  the  noise.  Past 
the  Spanish  Peaks  ;  past  the  new  town  of  Veta ;  into 
the  Veta  Pass  :  up,  up,  nine  thousand  feet  up,  across 
a  neck  of  the  Sangre  di  Cristo  range  itself ;  down  the 
other  side,  and  out  among  the  foot-hills  to  the  vast  San 
Luis  valley,  the  plucky  little  railroad  has  already  pushed. 
It  is  a  notable  feat  of  engineering.  As  the  road  winds 
among  the  mountains,  its  curves  are  so  sharp  that  the 
inexperienced  and  timid  hold  their  breath.  From  one 
track,  running  along  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  you  look 
up  to  another  which  you  are  presently  to  reach  ;  it  lies 
high  on  the  mountain-side,  four  hundred  feet  above  your 
head,  yet  it  looks  hardly  more  than  a  stone's  throw  across 
the  ra\dne  between.  The  curve  by  which  you  are  to 
climb  up  this  hill  is  a  thirty-degree  curve.  To  the  non- 
professional mind  it  will  perhaps  give  a  clearer  idea  of 
the  curve  to  say  that  it  is  shaped  like  a  mule-shoe,  — 
a  much  narrower  shoe  than  a  horse-shoe.  The  famous 
horse-shoe  curve  on  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  is  broad 
and  easy  in  comparison  with  this.  There  are  three  of 
these  thirty-degree  curves  within  a  short  distance  of 
each  other  ;  the  road  doubles  on  itself,  like  the  path 
of  a  ship  tacking  in  adverse  winds.  The  grade  is  very 
steep,  —  two  hundred  and  eleven  feet  to  the  mile  ;  the 
engines  pant  and  strain,  and  the  wheels  make  a  strange 
sound,  at  once  sibilant  and  ringing  on  the  steel  rails. 
You  go  but  six  miles  an  hour ;  it  seems  like  not  more 
than  four,  the  leisurely  pace  is  so  unwonted  a  one  for 
steam  engines.  With  each  mile  of  ascent,  the  view 
backward  and  downward  becomes  finer:  the  Spanish 
Peaks  and  the  plains  in  the  distance,  the  dark  ravines 
full  of  pine-trees  in  the  foreground,  and  Veta  Mountain 
on  the  left  hand.  —  a  giant  bulwark  furrowed  and  bare. 
There  are  so  many  seams  on  the  sides  of  this  mountain 
that  they  have  given  rise  to  its  name,  Veta,  which  in  the 
Spanish  tongue  means  "vein." 


388  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

From  the  mouth  of  the  pass  to  the  summit,  is,  meas- 
ured by  miles,  fourteen  miles  ;  measured  by  hours, 
three  hours  ;  measured  by  sensations,  the  length  of  a 
dream,  —  that  means  a  length  with  which  figures  and 
numbers  have  nothing  in  common.  One  dreams  some- 
times of  flying  in  the  air,  sometimes  of  going  swiftly 
down  or  up  endless  stairways  without  resting  his  feet 
on  the  steps  ;  my  recollection  of  being  lifted  up  and 
through  the  Veta  Pass,  by  steam,  are  Hke  the  recollec- 
tions of  such  dreams. 

The  summit  is  over  nine  thousand  feet  above  the  sea- 
level,  —  the  highest  point  reached  by  a  railroad  on  this 
continent.  Two  miles  beyond,  and  a  hundred  or  two 
feet  lower  down,  is  the  "■  Summit  House,"  at  which  we 
passed  the  night.  It  is  a  little  four-roomed  house  built 
of  mud  and  set  down  in  a  flower-bed  of  larkspur,  hare- 
bells, penstemons,  gilias,  white,  yellow,  and  purple  asters 
and  wild  strawberries  ;  just  above  the  house  a  spring  of 
pure  water  gushes  out.  The  ceaseless  running  of  this 
water  and  the  wind  in  the  pines  are  the  only  sounds 
which  break  the  solitude  of  the  spot.  Once  at  night 
and  once  in  the  morning,  the  sudden  whistle  of  the 
steam-engine  and  the  swift  rush  of  the  train  going  by 
fall  on  the  silence  starthngly,  and  are  gone  in  a  second. 
The  next  day  we  drove  eighteen  miles  westward,  follow- 
ing the  line  of  the  railroad  down  the  canyon  for  six  or 
eight  miles,  then  bearing  off  to  the  right  and  climbing 
the  high  hills  which  make  the  eastern  wall  of  the  San 
Luis  Park.  On  our  right  rose  the  majestic  Sierra 
Blanca,  —  the  highest  mountain  in  Colorado,  —  bare 
and  colorless  in  the  early  morning  light ;  but  trans- 
formed into  beauty  later  in  the  day  when  mists  veiled  it 
and  threw  it,  solid  gray,  against  a  sunny  blue  sky,  while 
transparent  fringes  of  rain  fell  between  us  and  it,  mak- 
ing a  shifting  kaleidoscope  of  bits  of  rainbow  here  and 
there.  The  meadow  intervals  skirting  the  San  Luis 
Park  at  this  point  are  very  beautiful :  fields  high  with 
many-colored  grasses  and  gay  with  flowers,  with  lines 
of  cotton-wood  trees  zigzagging  through  wherever  they 


A   NEW  ANVIL   CHORUS.  389 

choose  to  go,  and  the  three  grand  peaks  of  the  Sierra 
Blanca  towering  above  all ;  to  the  west  and  south  a  vast 
outlook,  bounded  and  broken  only  by  mountain-tops  so 
fai  away  that  they  are  mistily  outlined  on  the  horizon. 
Leaving  these  meadow  intervals,  you  come  out  on  great 
opens  where  nothing  but  sage-brush  grows. 

"  Good  to  make  fires  of  ;  makes  desperate  hot  fires," 
said  our  driver. 

It  looked  as  if  it  had  been  burned  at  the  stake 
already,  every  bush  of  it,  and  been  raised  by  some  mira- 
cle, with  all  its  stems  left  still  twisted  in  agony.  There 
cannot  be  on  earth  another  so  sad-visaged  a  thing  as  a 
sage-bush,  unless  it  be  the  olive-tree,  of  which  it  is  a 
miniature  reproduction  :  the  same  pallid  gray  tint  to  its 
leaf  ;  the  same  full  and  tender  curves  in  its  marred  out- 
lines ;  the  same  indescribable  contortions  and  writhings 
of  stem  ;  those  which  are  short  seem  to  be  struck  low 
by  pain,  to  be  clasping  and  clutching  at  the  ground  in 
despair  ;  those  which  grow  two  or  three  feet  high  seem 
to  be  stretching  up  deformed  and  in  every  direction 
seeking  help.  It  would  be  easy  to  fancy  that  journey- 
ing day  after  day  across  the  sage-brush  plains  might 
make  a  man  mad  ;  that  he  might  come  at  last  to  feel 
himself  a  part  of  some  frightful  metempsychosis,  in 
which  centuries  of  sin  were  being  expiated. 

Surrounded  by  stretches  of  this  dreary  sage-brush 
stands  Fort  Garland,  looking  southward  down  the  val- 
ley. It  is  not  a  fort  which  could  resist  a  siege,  —  not 
even  an  attack  from  a  few  mounted  Indians  ;  it  must 
have  been  intended  simply  for  barracks ;  a  few  rows  of 
low  mud-walled  buildings  placed  in  a  sort  of  hollow 
square  with  openings  on  three  sides  ;  a  little  plat  of 
green  grass  and  a  few  cotton-wood  trees  in  the  centre  ; 
twt  brass  field-pieces  pointing  vaguely  to  the  south;  a 
score  or  so  of  soldiers'  houses  outside  ;  some  clothes- 
lines on  which  red  shirts,  and  here  and  there  a  blue  coat, 
were  blowing ;  a  United  States  flag  fluttering  on  the 
flag-staff,  one  soldier  and  one  sergeant ;  that  was  all  we 
saw  in  the  way  of  defences  of  the  San  Luis  Valley 


390  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME. 

There  are  two  companies  stationed  at  the  post,  —  one  a 
company  of  colored  cavalry,  —  but  a  quieter,  more 
peaceful,  less  military-looking  spot  than  was  Fort  Gar- 
land during  the  time  we  spent  there  it  would  be  hard  to 
find.  Over  the  door-way,  in  one  of  the  mud-houses, 
was  the  sign  "  Hotel."  This  hotel  consisted  appar- 
ently of  three  bedrooms  and  a  kitchen.  In  the 
left-hand  bedroom  a  travelling  dentist  was  holding 
professional  receptions  for  the  garrison.  The  shining 
tools  of  his  trade  were  spread  on  the  centre-table  and 
on  the  bed  ;  in  this  room  we  waited  while  dinner  was 
being  served  for  us  in  the  opposite  bedroom.  It  was 
an  odd  thing  at  a  dinner  served  in  a  small  bedroom,  to 
have  a  man  waiter  stand  behind  your  chair,  politely  and 
incessantly  waving  a  big  feather  brush  to  keep  the  flies 
away. 

Garland  City,  the  present  terminus  of  the  San  Juan 
branch  of  the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande  Railroad,  is  six 
miles  from  Fort  Garland.  The  road  to  it  from  the  fort 
lies  for  the  last  three  miles  on  the  top  of  a  sage-grown 
plateau.  It  is  straight  as  an  arrow,  looks  in  the  dis- 
tance like  a  brown  furrow  on  the  pale  gray  plain,  and 
seems  to  pierce  the  mountains  beyond.  Up  to  within 
an  eighth  of  a  mile  of  Garland  City,  there  is  no  trace  of 
human  habitation.  Knowing  that  the  city  must  be 
near,  you  look  in  all  directions  for  a  glimpse  of  it ;  the 
hills  ahead  of  you  rise  sharply  across  your  way.  Where 
is  the  city  ?  At  your  very  feet,  but  you  do  not  sus- 
pect it. 

The  sunset  light  was  fading  when  we  reached  the 
edge  of  the  ravine  in  which  the  city  lies.  It  was  like 
looking  unawares  over  the  edge  of  a  precipice ;  the 
gulch  opened  beneath  us  as  suddenly  as  if  the  earth  had 
that  moment  parted  and  made  it.  With  brakes  set  firm, 
we  drove  cautiously  down  the  steep  road  ;  the  ravine 
twinkled  with  lights,  and  almost  seemed  to  flutter  with 
white  tent  and  wagon-tops.  At  the  farther  end  it  wid- 
ened, opening  out  on  an  inlet  of  the  San  Luis  Park,  and 
in  its  centre,  near  this  widening  mouth,  lay  the  twelve- 
days'  old  city.     A  strange  din  arose  from  it. 


A   NEW  ANVIL    CHORUS.  391 

"  What  is  going  on  ?  "  we  exclaimed. 

"  The  building  of  the  city,"  was  the  reply.  "  Twelve 
days  ago  there  was  not  a  house  here.  To-day  there  are 
one  hundred  and  five,  and  in  a  week  more  there  will  be 
two  hundred  ;  each  man  is  building  his  own  home,  and 
working  night  and  day  to  get  it  done  ahead  of  his  neigh- 
bor. There  are  four  saw-mills  going  constantly,  but 
they  can't  turn  out  lumber  half  fast  enough.  Every- 
body has  to  be  content  with  a  board  at  a  time.  If  it 
were  not  for  that,  there'd  have  been  twice  as  many 
houses  done  as  there  are." 

We  drove  on  down  the  ravine.  The  hills  on  either 
side  were  sparsely  grown  with  grass,  and  thinly  covered 
with  pinon  and  cedar  trees  ;  a  little  creek  on  our  right 
was  half  hid  in  willow  thickets.  Hundreds  of  white 
tents  gleamed  out  among  them  :  tents  with  poles  ;  tents 
made  by  spreading  sail-cloth  over  the  tops  of  bushes  ; 
round  tents  ;  square  tents  ;  big  tents  ;  httle  tents  ;  and 
for  every  tent  a  camp-fire  ;  hundreds  of  white-topped 
wagons  also,  at  rest  for  the  night,  their  great  poles 
propped  up  by  sticks,  and  their  mules  and  drivers  lying 
and  standing  in  picturesque  groups  around  them.  It 
was  a  scene  not  to  be  forgotten.  Louder  and  louder 
sounded  the  chorus  of  the  hammers  as  we  drew  near 
the  centre  of  the  "  city  ;  "  more  and  more  the  bustle 
thickened  ;  great  ox-teams,  swaying  unwieldily  about, 
drawing  logs  and  planks  :  backing  up  steep  places  ;  all 
sorts  of  vehicles  driving  at  reckless  speed  up  and  down  ; 
men  carrying  doors  ;  men  walking  along  inside  of  win- 
dow-sashes, —  the  easiest  way  to  carry  them ;  men 
shovelling ;  men  wheeHng  wheelbarrows  ;  not  a  man 
standing  still  ;  not  a  man  with  empty  hands  ;  every  man 
picking  up  something,  and  running  to  put  it  down  some- 
where else,  as  in  a  play,  and  all  the  while,  "  clink  ! 
clink !  clink !  "  ringing  above  the  other  sounds,  the 
strokes  of  hundreds  of  hammers,  like  the  anvil  chorus. 

"  Where  is  Perry's  Hotel  ?  "  we  ?,sked. 

One  of  the  least  busy  of  the  throng  spared  time  to 
point  to  it  with  his  thumb  as  he   passed  us.     In  some 


392  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

bewilderment  we  drew  up  in  front  of  a.  large  unfinished 
house,  through  the  many  uncased  apertures  of  which 
we  could  see  only  scaffoldings,  rough  boards,  carpen- 
ter's benches,  and  heaps  of  shavings.  Streams  of  men 
were  passing  in  and  out  through  these  openings,  which 
might  be  either  doors  or  windows  ;  no  steps  led  to  any 
of  them. 

"-  Oh,  yes  !  Oh,  yes  !  can  accommodate  you  all  !  '  was 
the  landlord's  reply  to  our  hesitating  inquiries.  He 
stood  in  the  door- way  of  his  dining-room  ;  the  streams 
of  men  we  had  seen  going  in  and  out  were  the  fed  and 
the  unfed  guests  of  the  house.  It  was  supper-time  :  we 
also  were  hungry.  We  peered  into  the  dining-room : 
three  tables  full  of  men  ;  a  huge  pile  of  beds  on  the 
floor,  covered  with  hats  and  coats  ;  a  singular  wall,  made 
entirely  of  doors  propped  upright;  a  triangular  space 
walled  off  by  sail-cloth,  —  this  is  what  we  saw.  We 
stood  outside  waiting  among  the  scaffolding  and 
benches.  A  black  man  was  lighting  the  candles  in  a 
candelabra,  made  of  two  narrow  bars  of  wood  nailed 
across  each  other  at  right  angles,  and  perforated  with 
holes.  The  candles  sputtered,  and  the  hot  fat  fell  on 
the  shavings  below. 

"  Dangerous  way  of  lighting  a  room  full  of  shavings," 
some  one  said. 

The  landlord  looked  up  at  the  swinging  candelabra 
and  laughed. 

"  Tried  it  pretty  often,"  he  said.  "  Never  burned  a 
house  down  yet." 

I  observed  one  peculiarity  in  the  speech  at  Garland 
City.  Personal  pronouns,  as  a  rule,  were  omitted ; 
there  was  no  time  for  a  superfluous  word. 

"  Took  down  this  house  at  Wagon  Creek,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  just  one  week  ago  ;  took  it  down  one  morning 
while  the  people  were  eating  breakfast  ;  took  it  down 
over  their  heads  ;  putting  it  up  again  over  their  heads 
now." 

This  was  literally  true.  The  last  part  of  it  we  our- 
selves were  seeing  while  he  spoke,  and  a  friend  at  our 
elbow  had  seen  the  Wagon  Creek  crisis. 


A   NEW  ANVIL    CHORUS.  393 

*"M  waiting  for  that  round  table  for  you,"  said  the 
landlord  ;  "'11  bring  the  chairs  out  here  's  fast  's  they 
quit  'em.     That's  the  only  way  to  get  the  table." 

So,  watching  his  chances,  as  fast  as  a  seat  was  va- 
cated, he  sprang  into  the  room,  seized  the  chair  and 
brought  it  out  to  us.  and  we  sat  there  in  our  "  reserved 
seats  "  biding  the  time  when  there  should  be  room 
enough  vacant  at  the  table  for  us  to  take  our  places. 

What  an  indescribable  scene  it  was  !  The  strange- 
looking  wall  of  propped  doors  which  we  had  seen  was 
the  impromptu  wall  separating  the  bedrooms  from 
the  dining-room.  Bedrooms  ?  Yes.  five  of  them  ;  that 
is,  five  bedsteads  in  a  row,  with  just  space  enough  be- 
tween them  to  hang  up  a  sheet,  and  with  just  room 
enough  between  them  and  the  propped  doors  for  a  mod- 
erate-sized person  to  stand  upright  if  he  faced  either  the 
doors  or  the  bed.  Chairs  ?  Oh.  no  !  What  do  you 
want  of  a  chair  in  a  bedroom  which  has  a  bed  in  it  ? 
Wash-stands  ?  One  tin  basin  out  in  the  unfinished 
room.     Towels  ?     Uncertain. 

The  little  triangular  space  walled  off  by  the  sail-cloth 
was  a  sixth  bedroom,  quite  private  and  exclusive,  and  the 
big  pile  of  beds  on  the  dining-room  floor  was  to  be  made 
up  into  seven  bedrooms  more  between  the  tables  after 
everybody  had  finished  supper. 

Luckily  for  us  we  found  a  friend  here,  —  a  man  who 
has  been  from  the  beginning  one  of  Colorado's  chief 
pioneers,  and  who  is  never,  even  in  the  wildest  wilder- 
ness, without  resources  of  comfort. 

"  You  can't  sleep  here,"  he  said.  '*  I  can  do  better 
for  you  than  this." 

"  Better  !  " 

He  offered  us  luxury.  How  movable  a  thing  is  one's 
standard  of  comfort  !  A  two-roomed  pine  shanty,  board 
walls,  board  floors,  board  ceilings,  board  partitions  no*' 
reaching  to  the  roof,  looked  to  us  that  night  like  a  palace. 
To  have  been  entertained  at  Windsor  Castle  would  not 
have  made  us  half  so  grateful. 

It  was  late  before  the  "city'    grew  quiet,  and  long 


594  BFTS  OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

ifter  most  of  the  lights  were  out,  and  most  of  the  sounds 
iad  ceased,  I  heard  one  solitary  hammer  in  the  distance, 
♦link,  clink,  clink.  I  fell  asleep  listening  to  it.  At  day- 
ight  the  chorus  began  again,  dinning,  deafening  on  all 
iides  ;  the  stir,  the  bustle,  every  motion  of  it  began  just 
where  it  had  left  off  at  bed-time.  I  sat  on  a  door-step 
and  watched  the  street.  It  was  like  a  scene  in  an  opera. 
Every  man  became  dramatic  from  the  unconscious  ab- 
sorption in  his  every  action.  Even  the  animals  seemed 
playing  parts  in  a  spectacle.  There  were  three  old 
sows  out  with  their  broods  in  search  of  early  breakfast, 
and  they  wore  an  expression  of  alertness  and  despatch 
such  as  I  never  before  saw  in  their  kind.  There  were 
twenty-three  in  all,  of  the  Httle  pigs,  and  very  pretty 
they  were  too,  — just  big  enough  to  run  alone,  —  white, 
and  black,  and  mottled,  no  two  alike,  and  all  with  fine, 
pink,  curly  tails.  How  they  fought  over  orange-peels, 
and  sniffed  at  cigar-stumps,  and  every  other  minute  ran 
squealing  from  under  some  hurrying  foot !  After  a 
while,  two  of  the  mothers  disappeared  incontinently, 
leaving  their  broods  behind  them.  The  remaining  sow 
looked  after  them  with  as  reproachful  an  expression  as 
a  human  mother  could  have  worn,  thus  compelled  to 
an  involuntary  baby-farming.  She  proved  very  faithful 
to  the  unwelcome  trust,  however,  and  did  her  best  to 
keep  all  the  twenty-three  youngsters  out  of  harm,  and 
the  last  I  saw  of  her,  she.  was  trying  to  persuade  them 
all  to  go  to  bed  in  a  willow  thicket. 

Then  came  a  dash  of  mules  and  horses  down  the 
street,  thirty  or  forty  of  them,  driven  at  full  gallop,  by 
a  man  riding  a  calico  horse  and  flourishing  a  big  braided 
leather  whip  with  gay  tassels  on  it.  They,  too,  were 
going  out  to  meals.  They  were  being  driven  down  to  a 
corral  to  be  fed. 

Then  came  a  Mexican  wagon,  drawn  by  two  gray 
and  white  oxen,  of  almost  as  fine  a  tint  as  the  Italian 
oxen,  which  are  so  like  in  color  to  a  Maltese  kitten. 
They  could  not,  would  not  hurry,  nor,  if  they  could 
help  it,  turn  to  the  right  or  left  for  anybody.     Smiling 


A  NEW  ANVIL   CHORUS.  395 

brown  faces  of  Mexican  men  shone  from  the  front  seat, 
and  laughing  brown  faces  of  Mexican  babies  peeped 
out  behind,  from  under  the  limp  and  wrinkled  old  wagon 
cover,  which  looked  hke  a  huge,  broken-down  sun- 
bonnet.  There  are  squashes  and  string-beans  and 
potatoes  in  the  back  of  the  wagon  to  sell  :  and,  while 
they  were  measuring  them  out,  the  Mexicans  chattered 
and  laughed  and  showed  white  teeth,  like  men  of  the 
Campagna.  They  took  me  for  a  householder,  as  I  sat 
on  my  door-step,  and  turned  the  gray  oxen  my  way, 
laughing  and  calling  out :  — 

"  Madame,  potatoes,  beans,  buy  ?  "  And  when  I 
shook  my  head,  they  still  laughed.  Everything  seemed 
a  joke  to  them  that  morning. 

Next  came  a  great  water-wagon,  with  a  spigot  in  its 
side.  Good  water  is  very  scarce  in  Garland  City,  as  it 
is,  alas,  in  so  many  places  in  Colorado  ;  and  an  enter- 
prising Irishman  is  fast  lining  his  pockets  by  bringing 
down  water  from  a  spring  in  the  hill,  north  of  the  town, 
and  selHng  it  for  twenty-five  cents  a  barrel.  After  he 
had  filled  the  barrel  which  stood  by  my  friend's  door, 
he  brought  a  large  lump  of  ice,  washed  it,  and  put  it 
into  a  tin  water-pail  of  water  on  the  table. 

"  Where  did  that  ice  come  from  ? "  I  exclaimed,  won- 
dering if  there  were  any  other  place  in  the  world  except 
America,  where  ice  could  be  delivered  to  families  in  a 
town  twelve  days  old. 

"  Oh,  just  back  here  from  Veta.  The  people  there, 
they  laid  in  a  big  stock  last  winter,  and  when  the  town 
moved  on,  they  hadn't  any  use  for  the  ice,  'n'  so  they 
pack  it  down  here  on  the  cars  every  day." 

"  The  town  moved  on  !  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? " 
I  asked, 

"  Why,  most  all  these  people  that's  puttin'  up  houses 
here,  lived  in  Veta  three  months  ago.  They're  jest 
followin'  the  railroad." 

"  Oh."  said  I,  "  I  thought  most  of  them  had  come 
from  Wagon  Creek"  (the  station  between  Veta  and 
Garland   City). 


39^  BITS  OF   TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

"Well,  they  did  stop  at  Wagon  Creek  for  a  spell; 
nothin'  more  than  to  check  up,  though  ;  not  enough  to 
count.  Some  of  these  houses  was  set  up  to  Wagon 
Creek  a  few  days. 

"  Where  iver  did  ye  git  that  dog  ?  "  he  exclaimed 
suddenly,  catching  sight  of  Douglas,  a  superb,  pure- 
blooded  stag-hound,  who  had  come  with  us  from  the 
Summit  House.     "  Mebbe  ye're  EngUsh  ?  " 

"  No,  we  are  not.     Are  you?" 

"  No.  I'm  Irish  born  ;  but  I  know  an  ould  counthry 
dog  when  I  see  him.     Ah,  but  he's  a  foine  craythur." 

"  Do  you  like  this  country  better  than  the  old  coun- 
try ? "  I  asked. 

"Yes.  I  can  make  more  money  here;  that's  the 
main  thing,"  said  the  thoroughly  naturalized  Pat;  and 
he  sprang  up  to  the  top  of  his  water-cart  and  drove  off, 
whisthng. 

Next  came  a  big,  black,  leather-topped  wagon,  with  a 
black  bear  chained  on  a  rack  behind.  The  wagon  rat- 
tled along  very  fast,  and  the  bear  raced  back  and  forth 
on  his  shelf  and  shook  his  chain.  Nobody  seemed  to 
take  any  notice  of  the  strange  sight ;  not  a  man  turned 
his  head.  One  would  not  have  thought  wagons  with 
black  bears  dancing  on  platforms  behind  them  could 
have  been  common  sights,  even  in  Garland  City. 

These  are  only  a  few  of  the  shifting  street-scenes  1 
watched  that  morning.  After  a  time  I  left  my  door- 
step and  strolled  about  in  the  suburbs  of  this  baby 
"city."  The  suburbs  were,  as  suburbs  always  are, 
more  interesting  than  the  thoroughfares;  pathetic,  too, 
with  their  make-shifts  of  shelter.  Here  were  huts, 
mere  huts,  literally  made  of  loose  boards  thrown  to- 
gether ;  women  and  children  looked  out  from  shapeless 
doorways,  and  their  ragged  beds  and  bedding  and 
clothes  were  piled  in  heaps  outside,  or  flung  on  the 
bushes.  Here  were  fenced  corrals  in  open  spaces 
among  the  willows,  with  ill-spelt  signs  saying  that 
horses  and  mules  would  be  fed  there  cheaply.  Here 
were  rows  of  new  Kansas  wagons,  with  green  and  white 


A   NEW  ANVIL    CHORUS.  397 

bodies  and  scarlet  wheels  ;  here  were  top-bu<i:gies  and 
carts,  and  a  h'uge  black  ambulance,  bound  for  Fort  Gar- 
land. Here  were  stacks  of  every  conceivable  mer- 
chandise, which  had  been  hastily  huddled  out  of  the 
freight  cars,  and  were  waiting  their  turn  to  be  loaded 
on  the  San  Juan  wagons.  Here  stood  the  San  Juan 
coach,  — the  great,  swinging,  red-bodied,  covered  coach 
we  know  so  well  in  New  England.  A  day  and  a 
night  and  half  a  day,  without  stopping,  he  must  ride 
who  will  go  from  Garland  City  to  Lake  City  in  this 
stage.  The  next  morning  I  saw  it  set  off  at  six  o'clock. 
A  brisk,  black-eyed  little  Frenchwoman,  trig  and  natty, 
with  her  basket  on  her  arm,  was  settling  herself  in  the 
back  seat.  She  had  lived  in  Lake  City  a  year,  and  she 
liked  it  better  than  Denver. 

"Mooch  nicer;  mooch  nicer:  so  cool  as  it  is  in 
summer  !     Nevare  hot." 

"But  is  it  not  very  cold  in  winter  ? " 

A  true  French  shrug  of  her  shoulders  was  her  first 
reply,  followed  by,  — 

"  But  no  ;  with  snug  house,  and  big  fire,  it  is  nevare 
cold  ;  and  in  winter  we  have  so  many  of  meetings, 
what  you  call  sosharbles,  it  is  a  good  time."  Then  she 
called  out  sharply  in  French,  to  her  husband,  who  was 
disposing  of  their  parcels  in  a  way  which  did  not  please 
her  ;  and  then,  seeing  me  wave  a  good-by  to  one  on 
top  of  the  coach,  she  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and 
called  with  the  light-hearted  laugh  of  her  race  :  — 

"  Ah,  then,  why  does  not  Madame  come  too  ?  My 
husband  is  better  ;  he  takes  me  along."  At  which  the 
collective  stage-coach  laughed  loud,  the  driver  swung 
his  long  whip  around  the  leaders'  ears,  and  the  coach 
plunged  off  at  a  rattling  pace. 

In  the  edge  of  a  willow  copse,  on  the  northern  out- 
skirts of  the  city,  I  found  a  small  shanty,  the  smallest  I 
had  seen.  It  was  so  low,  one  could  not  enter  without 
stooping,  nor  stand  quite  upright  inside.  The  boards 
of  which  it  was  built  were  full  of  knot-holes  ;  those 
making  the  roof  were  laid  loosely  across  the  top,  aad 


39^  BITS  OF  rRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

could  not  have  been  much  protection  against  rain. 
The  boards  of  a  wagon-top  were  set  up  close  by  the 
doorway,  and  on  these  were  hanging  beds,  bedding,  and 
a  variety  of  nondescript  garments.  A  fire  was  burning 
on  the  ground  a  few  steps  off ;  on  this  was  a  big  iron 
kettle  full  of  clothes  boiling ;  there  were  two  or  three 
old  pans  and  iron  utensils  standing  near  the  fire  ;  an 
old  flag-bottomed  chair,  its  wood  worn  smooth  and 
shining  by  long  use ;  and  a  wooden  bench,  on  which 
was  a  wash-tub  full  of  clothes  soaking  in  water.  I 
paused  to  look  at  the  picture,  and  a  woman,  passing, 
said  :  — 

"That's  Grandma's  house." 

'*  Your  grandmother  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  replied.  "  She  ain't  nobody's  grand- 
mother ;  but  we  all  call  her  Grandma.  She's  here  with 
her  son ;  he  was  weakly,  and  she  brought  him  out 
here.  There  ain't  many  like  her.  I  wonder  where  she's 
gone,  leavin'  her  washin'  this  way." 

Then  we  fell  into  talk  about  the  new  city,  and  what 
the  woman's  husband  was  doing,  and  how  hard  it  was 
for  them  to  get  along ;  and  presently  we  heard  foot- 
steps. 

''  Oh,  there's  Grandma,  now,"  she  said. 

I  looked  up,  and  saw  a  tall,  thin  woman,  in  a  short, 
scant,  calico  gown,  with  an  old  woollen  shawl  crossed  at 
her  neck,  and  pinned  tight  at  the  belt,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  Quaker  women.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled  up 
above  her  elbows,  and  her  arms  were  brown  and  mus- 
cular as  an  Indian's.  Her  thin  gray  hair  blew  about 
her  temples  under  an  old  limp  brown  sun-bonnet,  which 
hid  the  outline  of  her  face,  but  did  not  hide  the  bright- 
ness of  her  keen,  light-gray  eyes.  Her  face  was  actually 
seamed  with  wrinkles  ;  her  mouth  had  fallen  in  from 
want  of  teeth ;  and  yet  she  did  not  look  wholly  like  an 
old  woman. 

"  Grandma,  this  lady's  from  Colorado  Springs,"  said 
my  companion,  by  way  of  introduction. 

Grandma  was  carrying   an  armful  of  cedar-boughs 


A  NEW  ANVIL   CHORUS.  399 

She  threw  them  on  the  orround,  and,  turnino^  to  me, 
said  with  a  smile  which  lighted  up  her  whole  face  :  — 

*'How  d'ye  do,  marm  ?  That's  a  place  I've  always 
wanted  to  see.  I've  always  thought  I  should  Hke  to 
live  to  the  Springs,  ever  since  I've  been  in  this  country." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "It's  a  pleasant  town;  but  do  you 
not  like  it  here  ?" 

She  glanced  at  her  shanty  and  its  surroundings,  and 
1  felt  guilty  at  having  asked  my  question ;  but  she 
replied :  — 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  like  it  very  well  here.  When  we  get  our 
house  built,  well  be  comfortable.  It's  only  for  Tommy 
I'm  here.  If  it  wan't  for  him  I  shouldn't  stay  in 
this  country.  He's  all  I've  got.  We're  all  alone  here, 
that  is,  so  far  as  connections  goes  ;  but  we've  got 
plenty  o'  friends,  and  God's  here  just  the  same's 
everywhere." 

She  spoke  this  last  sentence  in  as  natural  and  easy  a 
tone  as  all  the  rest ;  there  was  no  more  trace  of  cant  or 
affectation  in  her  mention  of  the  name  of  God  than  in 
her  mention  of  Tommy's.  They  seemed  equally  fa- 
miliar and  equally  dear.  Then  she  went  to  the  fire, 
and  turned  the  clothes  over  in  the  water  with  a  long 
stick,  and  prepared  to  resume  her  work. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ? "  I  asked. 

"Only  about  a  week,"  she  said.  "Tommy  he's 
working  's  hard  's  ever  he  can,  to  get  me  a  house  built. 
It  worries  him  to  see  me  living  this  way ;  he's  got  it 
three  logs  high  already,"  proudly  pointing  to  it,  only  a 
few  rods  farther  up  the  hill ;  "  but  Tommy's  only  a  boy 
yet ;  he  ain't  sixteen  ;  but  he's  learning,  he's  learning 
to  do  for  hisself ;  he's  a  real  good  boy,  an'  he's  getting 
strong  every  day  ;  he's  getting  his  health  real  firm,  'n' 
that's  all  I  want.  'Tain't  any  matter  what  becomes  of 
me,  if  I  can  only  get  Tommy  started  all  right." 

"  Was  he  ill  when  you  brought  him  here  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  dear!  yes.  He  was  jest  low;  he  had  to  he  on 
the  bottom  of  the  wagon  all  the  way.  I  traded  off  my 
house  for  a  wa<ron  and  two  horses,  ai  one  on  'em  was 


400  BITS  OF   TRA  VEL   A  T  HOME 

a  colt,  —  hadn't  been  in  harness  but  a  few  times  ;  jest 
that  wagon  and  horses  was  all  we  had  when  I  started 
to  bring  him  to  Colorado.  I'd  heard  how  the  air  here 
'd  cure  consumption,  'n'  I  jest  took  him  'n'  started  ;  'n' 
it's  saved  his  life,  'n'  that's  all  I  care  for.  He's  all 
I've  got." 

"  Where  was  your  home  ?  "  I  said.  "  Was  it  a  long 
journey  ?  " 

"  Way  down  in  Missouri ;  down  in  Sullivan  county," 
she  replied.  "  That's  where  I  was  raised.  'Taint 
healthy  there.  There  wan't  none  o'  my  children  healthy. 
Tommy's  all  I've  got  left, — at  least  I  expect  so.  I 
oughter  have  a  daughter  living  ;  but  the  last  letter  I 
had  from  her,  she  said  she  didn't  suppose  she'd  hve 
many  weeks  ;  she's  had  the  consumption  too  ;  she's 
married.  I  don't  know  whether  she's  'live  or  dead  now. 
Tommy's  all  I've  got." 

"Were  these  two  your  only  children.?"  I  ventured 
to  say. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I've  had  six.  Two  o'  my  sons  was  grown 
men ;  they  was  both  killed  in  the  war.  Then  there  was 
one  died  when  he  was  nine  months  old,  and  another 
when  he  was  jest  growd,  —  jest  fourteen  ;  and  then 
there's  the  daughter  I  told  ye  on,  an'  Tommy.  He's 
the  youngest.  He's  all  I've  got.  He's  a  good  boy, 
Tommy  is  ;  real  steady.  He's  always  been  raised  to 
go  to  Sunday  school.     He's  all  I've  got." 

The  abject  poverty  of  this  woman's  surroundings, 
the  constant  refrain  of,  "  he's  all  I've  got,"  and  the 
calm  cheerfulness  of  her  face,  began  to  bring  tears  into 
my  eyes. 

I  "  Grandma,"  said  I,  "  you  have  had  a  great  deal  of 
[trouble  in  your  life  ;  yet  you  look  happier  than  most 
people  do." 

'*  Oh,  no  !  I  ain't  never  suffered,"  she  said.  **  I've  al' 
ways  had  plenty.  I've  always  been  took  care  of 
God's  always  taken  care  of  me." 

"  That  must  be  a  great  comfort  to  you,  to  think  that, 
I  said. 


A   JVEJV  ANVIL    CHORUS.  401 

"  Think  it  !  "  exclaimed  the  grand  old  woman,  with 
fire  in  her  eye.  "Think  it!  I  don't  think  anything 
about  it ;  I  jest  know  it.  Why,  Tommy  'n'  me,  we  was 
snowed  up  last  April  in  a  canyon  here, — us  and  old 
man  Molan,  'n'  Miss  Molan,  'n'  Miss  Smith,  'n'  Miss 
Smith's  two  children:  snowed  up  in  thet  canyon  two 
weeks  lacking  two  days  ;  'n'  I'd  like  to  know  ef  any 
thing  but  God  'd  ha'  kep'  us  alive  then  !  No,  I  hain't 
never  suffered.  I've  always  had  plenty.  God's  always 
took  care  of  me."  And  a  serene  smile  spread  over 
her  face. 

"Oh,  will  you  not  tell  me  about  that  time?"  I  ex- 
claimed. "  If  it  will  not  hinder  you  too  much,  I  would 
be  very  glad  to  hear  all  about  it." 

"  Well,  you  jest  set  right  down  in  that  chair,  she  said, 
pointing  to  the  flag-bottomed  chair,  "  'n'  I'll  tell  you. 
'Twas  in  that  very  chair  Miss  Molan  she  sat  all  the 
first  night.  Them  two  chairs  (pointing  to  another  in 
the  shanty)  I  brought  all  the  way  from  Missouri  with 
me.  We  had  them  'n  the  wagon.  Miss  Molan  she  sat 
in  one,  'n'  held  the  baby ;  'n'  Miss  Smith  she  sat  in  the 
other,  'n'  held  the  little  boy ;  'n'  Tommy  'n'  me  we 
turned  over  the  two  water-buckets  'n'  sat  on  them  ;  'n' 
there  we  sat  all  night  long,  jest 's  close  to  each  other  's 
we  could  get ;  'n'  old  man  Molan  he  tended  the  fire  ;  'n' 
it  snowed,  snowed,  all  night,  's  tight  as  it  could  snow  ; 
'n'  towards  morning  the  old  man  says,  says  he,  'Well,  I 
don't  know  's  I  can  hold  out  till  morning,  but  I'll  try  ;  ' 
'n'  when  morning  come,  there  we  was  with  snow-drifts 
piled  up  aU  round  us  higher  'n  our  heads,  'n'  them  children 
never  so  much  's  cried.  It  seems  's  if  the  snow  kep'  us 
warm.  'Twan't  real  winter,  ye  see  ;  if  it  had  been, 
we'd  ha'  died  there,  all  in  a  heap, — froze  to  death, 
sure.  Well,  there  we  had  to  stay,  down  in  that  canyon, 
two  weeks,  a  lacking  two  days,  before  we  could  get  out. 
It  wan't  deep  with  snow  all  the  time,  but  when  the 
snow  went,  there  was  such  mud-holes,  there  couldn't 
nobody  travel  ;  but  the  first  week  it  snowed  pretty 
much  all  the  time.  The  wagons  was  up  on  the  top  o' 
26 


402  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

the  canyon,  'n'  we  kep'  a  path  trod  so  we  could  go  back 
an  forth  to  them  ;  'n'  there  was  a  kind  o'  shelving  placa 
o'  rock  in  the  canyon,  'n'  we  got  the  horses  down  in 
there  and  kep'  them  there,  'n'  we  had  plenty  for  them 
to  eat.  Old  man  Molan,  he  had  four  sacks  o'  corn,  'n 
we  had  three  ;  'n'  we  had  tea,  'n'  coffee,  'n'  flour,  'n 
sugar,  'n'  beans,  'n'  dried  apples.  The  dried  apples 
was  a  heap  o'  help.  We  didn't  suffer.  I  hain't  never 
suffered  ;  I've  always  had  plenty.  There  was  one  night, 
though,  we  did  like  to  got  lost.  We  got  ketched  in  an 
awful  storm  a-goin'  up  to  the  wagons  ;  'twas  jest  near 
night-time  ;  it  hed  been  real  clear,  'n'  we  all  of  us  went 
up  to  the  wagons  to  get  things.  All  but  Miss  Molan,  — 
she  stayed  in  the  canyon,  with  the  children  ;  'n'  there 
came  up  the  awfulest  snow-squall  I  ever  see.  It  took 
your  breath  out  o'  your  body,  'n'  you  couldn't  see  no 
more  'n  you  could  in  the  dead  o'  night.  First  I  got  into 
one  wagon,  'n'  Tommy  with  me  ;  'n'  the  rest  they  came 
on,  'n'  we  was  all  calling  out  to  each  other,  '  Be  you 
there  ?  '  'Be  you  there  ? '  'N'  at  last  we  was  all  in  the 
wagons,  'n'  there  we  jest  sat  till  morning ;  an'  if  you'll 
beheve  it,  along  in  the  night,  if  we  didn't  hear  Miss 
Molan  a-caUing  to  us.  She'd  felt  her  way  out  o'  thet 
canyon,  a-carrying  that  baby  'n'  dragging  the  boy  after 
her.  She  was  afraid  to  stay  in  the  canyon  all  alone  ; 
but  'twas  a  meracle  her  getting  to  the  wagons  's  she  did. 
It  was  dreadful  foolish  in  her,  'n'  I  told  her  so.  That 
morning  the  snow  was  up  to  our  middles,  and  we  had  a 
time  on't  getting  back  into  the  canyon." 

I  wish  I  could  tell  the  whole  of  Grandma's  story  in 
her  own  words  ;  but  it  would  be  impossible.  My  own 
words  will  be  much  less  graphic,  but  they  will  serve  to 
convey  the  main  features  of  her  narrative. 

Finding  me  so  sympathetic  a  Hstener,  she  told  me  bit 
by  bit  the  whole  history  of  her  emigration  from  Mis- 
souri to  Colorado.  Her  husband  had  been  a  farmer, 
and,  I  inferred,  an  unsuccessful  one,  in  Missouri,  He 
had  died  thirteen  years  ago.  Her  two  eldest  sons, 
grown  men,  had  been  in  the  Confederate  army,  and 
were  both  killed  in  battle.     Shortly  after  this,  the  jay- 


A   A^£PV  ANVIL   CHORUS.  4^3 

hawkers  burnt  her  house  She  escaped  with  only 
Tommy  and  his  brother,  and  the  clothes  they  were 
wearino;. 

"  They  jest  left  me  my  two  little  children,"  she  said, 
"and  that  was  all.  But  it  wan't  two  days  before  the 
neighbors  they  got  together  'n'  they  gave  me  's  much  's 
two  wagon  loads  o'  things,  all  I  needed  to  set  up  aga!n 
'n'  go  on.  I  hain't  never  suffered  ;  I've  always  been 
took  care  of,  ye  see." 

By  hook  and  by  crook  she  managed  finally  to  get  an 
other  house,  with  a  little  land,  where  she  and  Tommy 
were  living  alone  together,  when  his  health  began  to 
fail.  He  had  chills,  and  then  he  raised  blood  ;  then 
she  made  up  her  mind,  cost  what  it  would,  to  carry  him 
to  Colorado.  Her  house  must  have  been  a  small  and 
poor  one,  because  all  she  got  in  exchange  for  it  was  a 
little  covered  wagon  and  two  horses  ;  one,  the  colt 
which  had  been  in  harness  only  a  few  times,  "  was,"  she 
said,  "  not  much  more  'n  skin  an'  bone,  but  'twas  the 
best  I  could  do." 

So  she  packed  her  household  goods  and  her  sick  boy 
into  the  wagon,  and  set  out  to  drive  to  Colorado.  When 
they  reached  Fort  Scott  in  Kansas,  the  people  at  the 
fort  persuaded  her  to  lighten  her  load  by  shipping  most 
of  her  things  by  rail  to  Pueblo. 

"  I  got  a  big  box,"  she  said,  "an'  I  jest  put  every 
thing  into  it,  an'  a  man  who  was  shipping  a  lot  o'  things 
o'  his  own,  said  he'd  ship  mine  with  his,  'n'  I  come  on 
with  Tommy  'n'  left  'em  all ;  but  I  kind  o'  mistrusted  I 
shouldn't  ever  see  'em  again  ;  but  the  horses  'd  never 
held  out  to  draw  'em  through  ;  so  'twas  best  to  let  'em 
go,  even  if  I  did  lose  'em." 

When  they  reached  Pueblo  nothing  could  be  heard  of 
the  box  ;  she  made  up  her  mind  that  it  was  lost,  and 
pushed  on  with  Tommy  to  Los  Animas,  where  she  went 
to  work  in  a  hotel  for  twenty  dollars  a  month,  and 
Tommy  found  a  place  as  sheep-herder  for  fifteen  dollars 
a  month.  Putting  their  wages  together  they  soon  got  a 
little  money  ahead,  enough  to  enable  the^i  to  journey 
into  the  San  Juan  country  to  Lake  City.     The  highei 


404  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

into  the  mountains  they  went,  the  stronger  Tommy 
grew.  He  would  chmb  the  hills  like  a  goat,  and  de- 
lighted in  the  wild  out-door  life  ;  but  the  altitude  at 
Lake  City  was  too  great  for  Grandma's  lungs,  and  they 
were  obliged  to  turn  back. 

"  It  seemed  as  if  I  jest  couldn't  git  a  mite  o'  breath 
up  there,"  she  said,  "  'n'  we'd  got  to  be  where  I  could 
work  for  Tommy,  an'  I  wan't  of  any  account  up  there  to 
do  any  thing," 

While  they  were  hving  in  Lake  City,  the  lost  box  was 
recovered.     A  lady  for  whom  Grandma  had  done  some 
work  interested    herself  in  the    matter    sufficiently  to 
speak  of  it  to  an  express  agent,  and  finding  that  there 
seemed  still  to  be  some  possibility  of  tracing  the  box, 
sent  for  Grandma  to  come  and  tell  her  own  story.     "  I 
told  her  I  didn't  want  to  bother  no  Mr.  Jones  about  it,' 
said  Grandma  ;  "  the  box  was  gone,  I  knew  it  was  gone, 
'n'   I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  't.     But  there  wouldn't 
nothing  do,  but  I  must  go  up  to  her  house  an'  see  this 
Mr.  JonesJ  an'  tell  him  all  about  it,  jest  who  I  shipped 
it  with  an'  all.     I   had  the  man's  name  on  a  piece  o' 
paper.     I  always  kep'  that.     Well,  Mr.  Jones  he  asked 
me  a  heap  o'  questions,  an'  wrote  it  all  down  in  a  little 
book  ;    and  if    you'll  beheve   me,  it  wan't  two  weeks 
before  a  letter  come  a-saying  that  my  box  was  all  safe. 
They  had  been  going  to  sell  it  in  Pueblo,  but  that  man 
that  shipped  it,  he  wouldn't  let  'em.     He  had  it  shipped 
back  to  him  to  Kansas  City  ;  he  said  he  thought   I'd 
turn  up  some  day.     Ye  see  when  I  was  in  Pueblo  look- 
ing for  it,  it  hadn't  got  there.     There  .was  nine  dollars 
'n'  fifty-five  cents  to  pay  on  the  box  before  we  could  get 
it.     Tommy  and  I  together  hadn't  got  so  much  's  that ; 
but  they  took  off  the  fifty-five  cents,   and  some  folks 
helped  me  to  make  it  up  ;    and  when  that  box  come, 
there  was  every  thing  in  it  exactly  's   I'd  put  'em  in 
most  a  year  before,  only  one  o'  the  flat-irons  had  slipped 
on  to  the  looking-glass  an'  broke  it;  but  the  old  clock 
it  went  right  along  jest  's  good  's  ever  ;  an'  all  my  bed- 
quilts  was  dry  's   could  be.     It  was  a  comfort  to  me, 
getting  that  box.     It  seemed  's  if  we    had  something 


A   ISTEW  ANVIL   CHORUS.  405 

then.  I've  sold  most  o'  my  bed-quilts  now,  —  I  had 
some  real  handsome  ones  ;  but  they  was  dreadful  heavy 
to  lug  round ;  and  we've  wanted  money  pretty  bad 
sometimes.  I've  sold  some  o'  my  best  clothes,  .too.  I 
hain't  ever  suffered  ;  we've  always  been  took  care  of." 

From  Lake  City  Grandma  and  Tommy  went  back  to 
Los  Animas,  where  they  made  a  comfortable  living,  — 
Tommy  by  "  hauling  "  with  his  wagon  and  horses,  and 
Grandma  by  taking  in  washing. 

"We  was  doing  first  rate,"  she  said  with  an  express 
sion  of  something  as  near  regret  as  her  face  was  capa- 
ble of,  "an'  I  wish  we'd  never  come  away  ;  but  Tommy 
he  got  in  with  old  man  Molan  ;  old  man  Molan's  an  old 
miner  ;  he's  a  first-rate  miner  they  say,  too,  ef  he  wan't 
so  old  —  he's  going  on  seventy  now;  he's  mined  all 
over  California  'n'  made  a  heap  of  money  in  his  turn 
but  he's  always  fooled  it  away.  He  was  full  o'  coming 
up  into  the  mines,  an'  Tommy  he  got  so  full  on't,  too,  I 
didn't  try  to  keep  him.  He's  all  I've  got ;  so  we  come 
on.  But  it  seemed  like  home  down  in  Los  Animas,  the 
farmers'  wagons  coming  into  town  every  Saturday  with 
vegetables  and  all  sorts  of  green  stuff;  I'd  like  to  go 
back  there,  but  I  hear  they're  moving  away  from  there 
terrible." 

"  Oh  yes,  Grandma,"  I  said,  "  there  isn't  much  of  a 
town  left  there  now.  That  was  one  of  the  towns  built 
up  for  a  few  months  by  the  railroad.  I  dare  say  there 
will  not  be  a  house  to  be  seen  there  a  year  from  now." 

She  sighed  and  shook  her  head,  saying, — 

"  Well,  it  does  beat  all ;  I  Hked  Los  Animas.  I  wish 
we'd  stayed  there." 

It  was  on  the  journey  from  Los  Animas  to  Veta  that 
they  had  had  the  terrible  experience  of  being  snowed  up 
in  the  canyon.  In  Veta  they  had  stayed  for  a  month  or 
two  ;  then  they  had  followed  the  advancing  railroad  to 
Wagon  Creek,  and  now  to  its  present  terminus,  Garland 
City. 

"  They  do  say  there  won't  be  any  town  here,  for 
more'n  a  year  or  so,"  she  said,  looking  anxiously  at  me  ; 
^^  that  they're  going  on  way  down  to  the  Rio  Grande 


4o6  BITS  OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

River.  But  some  seems  to  think  there'll  always  be 
enouo;h  to  keep  a  town  going  here.  I  suppose  we  shall 
go  wherever  old  man  Molan  goes,  though.  Tommy's 
so  took  up  with  him  ;  an'  I  don't  know  's  I  care  ;  he's 
a  good  old  man,  if  he  wan't  so  crazy  about  mining ;  he's 
to  work  building  now  ;  he's  a  good  hand  to  work,  old  's 
he  is.  If  we  only  had  a  church  here,  I  wouldn't  mind 
about  any  thing  ;  they  say  there  isn't  any  Sunday  in 
Colorado,  but  I  tell  them  God's  here  the  same  's  every- 
where ;  and  folks  that  wants  to  keep  Sunday  '11  keep 
Sunday  wherever  they  be  ;  but  churches  is  a  help. 
Hev  ye  got  good  churches  to  the  Springs  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  Grandma,"  I  said,  "  more  than  we  know 
what  to  do  with.  There  are  nine  different  churches 
there  ;  each  man  can  go  to  the  kind  he  likes  best." 

A  look  of  yearning  came  over  her  face. 

"  That's  the  place  I'd  like  to  go  to,"  she  said.  "  I've 
always  thought  I'd  like  to  live  there.  But  Tommy  he 
wants  to  go  where  old  man  PvTolan  goes  ;  and  I  shan't 
keep  him  ;  he's  all  I've  got,  an'  he's  got  his  health  first 
rate  now  ;  that's  all  I  care  for." 

In  the  afternoon  I  carried  to  Grandma  a  piece  of 
raspberry  short-cake  from  a  workmen's  picnic  dinner,  to 
which  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  invited.  "  Oh,  that 
does  look  good,"  she  said  with  childhke  pleasure. 
"  Thank  you  for  bringing  it  to  me,"  and  as  I  was  slowly 
walking  away,  she  called  after  me,  — 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  always  took  care  of  ?  " 

Late  in  the  day  we  drove  back  to  the  lonely  Summit 
House  for  the  night,  and  the  next  morning  we  went 
again  over  the  wonderful  curving  railroad  down  the 
pass.  Going  down  seemed  even  more  marvellous  than 
going  up,  and  the  views  were  all  finer  seen  from  above, 
than  from  below.  But  far  more  lasting  and  vivid  than 
my  memory  of  the  beauty  and  grandeur  and  triumph  of 
the  road  through  the  pass,  will  be  my  memory  of  the 
beauty  and  grandeur  and  triumph  which  I  saw  in  tSo 
face,  and  heard  in  the  words,  of  "  Grandma." 


SUNRISE   IN  COLORADO.  4©? 


A    CALENDAR    OF    SUNRISES    IN    COLO- 
RADO. 

IF  an  emperor  were  to  come  to  me,  saying,  "  O  friend, 
empire  has  grown  wearisome  to  me.  and  of  music 
and  dancing  and  banquets  I  am  tired  ;  how  shall  I  pro- 
vide myself  with  a  pleasure  ?  "  I  should  reply,  "  Sire, 
build  an  eastern  wing  to  thy  palace  ;  let  the  windows  of 
it  be  large ;  and  have  thy  bed  so  set  that,  turning  to  the 
left,  in  the  morning,  thou  shalt  open  thine  eyes  on  the 
sunrise.  So  shall  thy  days  become  glad,  thine  eyes  be 
filled  with  delight,  and  thy  soul  with  new  life." 

It  would  be  cruel  to  add,  "  And,  sire,  thy  palace  must 
be  built  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains  of  North  America  ;  "  but  I  should 
desire  to  add  it :  and  I  should  pity  the  emperor  who, 
after  he  had  built  the  eastern  wing  to  his  palace,  and 
set  his  bed  fronting  the  dawn,  had  only  such  sunrise  as 
might  be  found,  say,  in  Paris,  or  Moscow,  or  anywhere 
else  in  the  world,  except  at  the  horizon  of  a  Colorado 
plain,  with  Colorado  mountains  waiting  in  the  west. 

There  is  an  audacity  in  speaking  of  sunrises.  Hardly 
is  it  possible  to  use  such  tones  as  will  redeem  the  words 
from  triviality  or  irreverence,  and  disarm  the  resent- 
ment of  those  who  find  no  worship  true  except  it  is 
silent.  But  I  choose  the  word  calendar  as  a  guaranty 
and  an  apology :  guaranty  of  concise  exactness  and 
simple  fasb.ion,  and  apology  for  inevitable  shortcoming 
and  failure  ;  for  well  I  know  that,  after  I  have  borrowed 
from  color  all  the  names  which  its  masters  and  adorers 
have  given  it,  and  after  I  have  compelled  memory  to 
surrender  each  hidden  treasure  of  the  pictures  it  has 


4o8  BITS  OF  TRA  VEL  A  T  HOME. 

stored,  I  shall  still  have  made  but  an  insignificant  and 
inadequate  record  of  the  sunrise  pageants  which  I  have 
watched  on  these  marvellous  Colorado  plains. 

My  bedroom,  like  the  one  I  should  counsel  the  em- 
peror to  build,  looks  to  the  east.  I  have  but  to  turn  on 
my  pillow  to  be  ready  for  the  sun's  coming.  All  my 
life,  hitherto,  I  have  had  to  rise,  and  journey  a  greater 
or  less  distance,  to  meet  him  ;  and  of  this  has  been 
born  almost  as  great  an  aversion  as  dear  Charles  Lamb 
felt  when  he  was  bold  enough  to  say,  "  That  very  un- 
pleasant ceremony  called  sunrise."  How  different  a 
thing  is  sunrise  seen  from  one's  pillow,  in  absolute  re- 
pose, warmth,  and  that  delicious,  vague  ecstasy  of  the 
beginning  of  the  new  day  which  all  healthfully  organized 
beings  feel.     Try  it,  O  emperors  ! 

On  the  morning  of  February  6,  1876,  the  dome  oC 
sky  above  the  vast  plain  in  which  lies  the  little  town  of 
Colorado  Springs  was  covered  with  one  uniform  gray 
cloud,  —  not  a  break,  not  a  hghtened  shade  anywhere. 
While  it  was  yet  hardly  possible  to  see,  this  curtain 
slowly  lifted  in  the  eastern  and  southern  horizon,  re- 
vealing a  narrow  band  of  clear  light.  No  name  of 
color  could  be  given  to  this  luminous  space.  It  was 
too  radiant  to  be  called  white.  It  was  too  white  to  be 
called  yellow.  It  was  pure  light.  Presently  there 
came  upon  the  curtain  faint  ripples  of  rose-color,  reach- 
ing in  waving  lines  high  up  in  the  heavens.  Rapidly 
these  deepened,  until  they  were  glowing  red,  and  the 
space  of  pure  light  at  the  horizon  turned  bright  blue. 
Then  filmy  silver  bars  formed  in  the  blue  ;  and  sud- 
denly, almost  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  gray  cur- 
tain, with  its  rippled  red  lines,  broke  up  into  cumulous 
masses  of  rose  red,  fiery  red,  dark  red  clouds,  floating 
and  sailing  away  to  south  and  toward  the  zenith,  and 
changing  shape  and  tint  every  second.  Gradually  these 
changed  to  flame-color,  and  the  horizon  belt  of  bright 
blue  became  pale  green,  while  the  slender  silver  bars  in 
it  changed  to  gold,  and  looked  like  golden  rounds  of  a 
circling  ladder.     Next,  the  flame-colored  clouds  changed 


SUNRISE   IN  COLORADO.  409 

to  gold,  —  clear  gold  in  the  east ;  in  the  south  of  an 
amber  tint.  Then  they  grevv  softer  and  more  misty, 
and  their  lower  edges  took  on  a  silvery  brightness.  In 
so  far  as  changes  of  color  can  convey  the  thought  of  a 
hush,  of  expectant  silence,  it  was  conveyed  by  this 
softening  and  silvering  of  every  tint.  It  was  the  second 
before  sunrise.  As  the  round  disc  came  slowly  up,  the 
whole  plain  and  the  whole  heavens  were  suffused  with 
an  unutterably  tender  golden  haze,  and  yellow  light 
flooded  the  mountains  in  the  west.  By  this  time  I  had 
found  my  two  eastern  windows  insufficient,  and  was 
leaning  far  out  of  a  southern  window,  from  which 
I  could  see  east  and    south  and  west. 

The  village  itself  was  not  yet  in  full  light  ;  but  the 
tops  of  the  snowy  mountains  were  glowing  and  shining 
bars  of  sunlight  were  creeping  slowly  down  on  the 
soft  brown  of  the  foot-hills.  The  zenith  was  pale  blue, 
filled  with  great  masses  of -white  and  golden  clouds. 
Above  the  snow-topped  mountains  hung  the  silver 
moon,  paling  second  by  second  in  the  deepening  light ; 
and,  to  complete  the  bewilderingly  beautiful  picture,  a 
flock  of  tiny  snow-birds  came  flying  up  from  the  south, 
wheeling  and  circling  in  the  air.  At  last  they  flew  over 
my  head,  so  near  that  the  whirring  of  their  wings 
sounded  like  a  wind  in  pine  boughs.  There  were  hun- 
dreds of  these  birds.  As  they  passed  above  me,  the 
vivid  sunbeams  shot  through  and  through  each  out- 
stretched wing,  turning  it  for  one  second  into  a  trans- 
paremt  golden  web,  and  making  the  little  creatures  look 
more  like  great  black-and-gold  butterflies  than  like 
birds. 

And  so  that  day  began.  A  few  days  later,  the  morning 
opened  with  a  similar  gray  cloud  curtain  over  the  whole 
sky;  but  as  soon  as  the  curtain  lifted  at  the  southern 
and  eastern  horizons,  it  revealed  a  space  of  vivid  yel- 
low, with  bands  of  intense  salmon  pink  in  it.  Soon  this 
space  turned  to  pale,  clear  green,  shading  up  to  blue, 
and  the  bands  slowly  changed  from  salmon  to  gold. 
Above  hung  the  gray  curtain,  its  lower  edge  of  a  fiery 


41  o  BITS  OF  TRAVEL   AT  HOME. 

flame  red,  and  flecks  of  the  same  red  thickly  scattered 
upon  it.     In  the   south,  the  clear   belt  at  the  horizor 
was  of  a  pale  yellow,  and  the  cloud  curtain  of  a  darl 
opaline  purple,  shading  down  to  a  rose-color  where  . 
joined  the  yellow. 

Slowly,  —  so  slowly  that,  watching  even  as  closely  as 
1  was  watching,  I  could  hardly  detect  any  motion, — 
the  cloud  curtain  broke  up  into  fine,  flaky,  feathery 
fragments,  each  of  which  became  a  pale  yellow  as  i*: 
floated  into  the  higher  and  bluer  air.  There  they  drew 
together  again,  as  flocks  of  birds  close  in  ;  and  when 
they  had  once  more  become  a  solid  cloud  curtain,  it  was 
of  an  indescribable  silvery  brown  tint,  as  light  as  the 
lightest  possible  gray,  but  with  no  shade  of  gray  in  it, — 
only  pure  yellow-brown,  and  with  a  deep  golden,  almost 
fringing  edge  at  the  bottom.  Slowly  it  sank  toward  the 
horizon,  and  slowly  it  spread  up  toward  the  zenith,  still 
silvery  brown,  edged  above  and  below  with  gold. 
Gradually  the  golden  fringes  on  the  lower  edge  de- 
tached themselves  and  filled  the  clear  horizon  belt  with 
misty,  silvery  brown  clouds.  Into  these  came  the  sun, 
turning  them  for  one  second  into  molten  gold,  but  in 
the  next  second  growing  pale  and  disappearing  himself 
in  the  misty  vapor. 

The  southern  sky  turned  for  a  moment  to  pale  green, 
with  bands  of  pearl  gray  in  it ;  but  the  silvery  brown 
curtain  soon  conquered  all  other  colors.  Every  column 
of  smoke  which  rose  between  me  and  the  east  was 
golden  ;  those  which  were  between  me  and  the  west 
were  cold  and  dark  blue  gray.  The  plains  were  flooded 
with  silvery  brown  mist.  It  was  sunrise  ;  but  the  sun 
had  not  risen.  An  hour  later  he  came  up  over  the  top 
of  the  brown  cloud  curtain  ;  again  the  tops  of  the 
mountains  were  lighted  up  with  a  rosy  glow,  while  the 
foot-hills  were  in  the  shadow  of  the  cloud  bar ;  again 
the  blue  upper  air  was  filled  with  floating  clouds  of  pale 
yellow  and  silvery  brown.  And  so,  to'that  day  there 
were  two  sunrises. 

The  next  morning  the  pageant  was  a  short  one.     The 


SUNRISE    IN  COLORADO.  4" 

same  gray  curtain  covered  the  whole  sky.  A  few  mo- 
ments before  sunrise  there  came  upon  it  a  pale  flush  of 
rose  color.  This  slowly  deepened  to  red;  then  slowly 
faded  again  to  pale  rose,  then  disappeared  altogether ; 
and  in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  brilliant  golden  hue,  with  flecks  of  silver  ; 
then,  in  less  time  than  I  take  to  write  my  record  of  the 
fairy  spectacle,  the  golden  gray  curtain  and  its  silver 
flecks  broke  into  amyriad  of  shining  clouds,  floated 
away  and  dissolved,  and  the  sun  came  up  into  a  cloud- 
less heaven  of  shining  blue. 

Another  sunrise  which  I  shall  never  forget  was  on  the 
morning  of  March  ist.  Long  before  dawn  I  had  begun 
to  watch  for  it.  The  sky  was  dark,  but  clear  as  crystal 
and  blazing  with  stars.  The  broad  moon  was  setting 
in  the  west,  and  its  light  cast  silver  lines  along  all  the 
roofs  of  the  houses  and  lit  up  the  eastern  horizon.  One 
by  one  the  stars  fade,  and  the  sky  slowly  grew  lighter 
and  hghter,  until  it  looked  white,  — pure,  cold,  luminous 
white.  Then  black  clouds  began  to  blow  up  from  all 
sides.  The  whole  heavens  looked  strangely  angry 
and  threatening,  with  alternating  spaces  of  sharp 
black  and  white.  Then  the  black  clouds  changed 
to  a  pale  slate  color  and  the  wind  whirled  them  about 
furiously.  Next  came  a  faint  rose  tinge  upon  the  slate, 
making  it  seem  almost  purple.  The  same  tinge  spread 
over  the  thick  dark  cloud  belt  at  the  horizon  and  rippled 
it  with  red.  Then  the  slate  color  changed  to  pale  gray, 
then  to  the  most  delicate  lavender,  still  rippled  with  red.- 
Next,  with  a  swift,  strange  darkening  of  the  atmosphere, 
the  red  glow  all  died  away,  the  curtain  belt  at  the  hori- 
zon lifted,  and  the  whole  sky  was  filled  with  cumulous 
masses  of  gray  and  white.  Then  in  the  clear  hght  space 
at  the  horizon  came  one  slender  gold  line,  like  a  bird 
flying  with  outstretched  wings  ;  then  more  fine  gold  lines 
—  Hthe,  curving,  fluttering,  like  flying  serpents.  The 
upper  edge  of  the  gray  turned  to  gold  in  the  east,  and  in 
the  south  to  vermiUion  and  rose  ;  the  white  space  gradu- 
ally changed  to  vivid  light  green,  and  the  sunlight  pour- 


412  BITS  OF   TRAVEL  AT  HOME. 

ing  up  from  below  suffused  the  whole  mass  of  clouds 
with  a  pale  yellow  light,  making  them  soft  and  misty 
and  flooding  the  plains  with  an  indescribably  tender 
haze,  while  the  clouds  in  the  west  and  south  were  still 
stormy,  —  dark  gray  and  cold  slate  blue. 

Soon  the  gray  conquered.     It  seemed  to  filter  through 
the  golden  haze,  absorbing  it,  mixing  with  it,  until  there 
was  left  at  the  horizon   a  broad  belt  of  silvered  and 
gilded  gray,  shining  and  rippling  like  the  phosphores 
cent  wake  of  a  ship  under  stiong  moonhght. 

Spite  of  all  this  splendor,  it  was  a  sombre  morning. 
The  luminous  spaces  of  blue  and  silvery  white  seemed 
icy  cold  among  the  whirling  gray  clouds,  and  the  moun- 
tains looked  as  gaunt  and  black  and  pitiless  as  if  there 
was  no  sun  above  the  horizon. 

But  of  all  the  sunrises  whose  record  I  have  kept  the  onr 
I  shall  longest  and  most  vividly  remember  is  one  in  which 
I  saw  no  sun.  I  opened  my  eyes  upon  a  snow-storm, 
as  still  and  pauseless  and  beaudful  as  one  in  New  Eng- 
land. The  whole  sky  was  of  that  exquisite  clear  gray 
which  we  never  see  except  as  the  background  for  thick- 
falling  snowflakes.  While  I  lay  dreamily  watching  it,  I 
suddenly  thought  I  detected  a  faint  rosy  tint  in  the  at- 
mosphere. It  could  not  be  !  No  sunrise  tint  could 
pierce  through  that  thick  gray!  But  it  was.  It  did. 
The  color  deepened.  Rosier  and  rosier,  redder  and 
redder  grew  the  gray  wall,  until  I  sprang  to  the  window 
and  with  incredulous  eyes  gazed  on  a  sight  so  weirdly 
•beautiful  that  my  memory  almost  distrusts  itself  as  I 
recall  the  moment.  The  whole  eastern  and  southern 
sky  was  deep  red, — vivid  yet  opaque.  The  air  was 
filled  with  large  snowflakes.  As  they  slowly  floated 
down,  each  starry  crystalline  shape  stood  out  with 
dazzling  distinctness  on  the  red  background.  It  was 
but  for  a  moment.  As  mysteriously  as  it  had  come  the 
ruddy  glow  disappeared  ;  the  sky  and  the  falling  flakes 
all  melted  together  again  into  soft  white  and  gray,  and 
not  until  another  day  did  we  see  the  sun  which  for  that 
one  brief  moment  had  crimsoned  our  sky. 


SUNRISE    IN  COLORADO.  4^3 

These  are  but  five  sunrises  from  my  calendar.  O 
emperor,  wilt  thou  not  build  an  eastern  wing  to  thy 
Ijalace  and  set  thy  bed  frontins:  the  dawn  ? 

And  by  emperor  I  mean  simply  any  man  to  whom  it 
is  given  to  make  for  himself  a  home ;  and  by  palace  I 
mean  any  house,  however  small,  in  which  love  dwells 
and  on  which  the  sun  can  shine. 


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'*  Some  one  has  said  that,  if  >.Tie  could  open  the  mail-bags,  and  read  the 
women's  letters,  they  would  be  more  entertaining  than  any  books.  This  vol- 
ume is  an  open  mail-bag,  forwarded  from  Germany  or  Rome  or  the  Tyrol. 
The  faded  wonders  of  Europe  turn  out  to  be  wholly  fresh,  when  seen  through 
a  tresh  pair  of  eyes  ;  and  so  the  result  is  very  charming.  As  for  the  more 
elaborate  sketch  of  'A  German  Landlady,'  it  cannot  be  forgotten  by  any 
reader  of  the  *  Atlantic'  It  comprises  so  much  — such  humor,  such  pathos, 
such  bewitching  quaintness  of  dialect  —  that  I  can,  at  this  moment,  think  of 
no  American  picture  of  a  European  subject  to  equal  it.  It  is,  of  course,  the 
best  thing  in  the  volume  ;  but  every  page  is  readable,  and  almost  all  delight- 
ful."—  Col.  T.  W.  Higgitison. 

"  The  volume  ha-s  few  of  the  characteristics  of  an  ordinary  book  of  travel. 
It  is  entertaining  and  readable,  from  cover  to  cover ;  and,  when  the  untrav- 
elled  reader  has  finished  it,  he  will  find  that  he  knows  a  great  deal  more  abou*: 
life  in  Europe  —  having  seen  it  through  intelligent  and  sympathetic  eyes  — 
than  he  ever  got  before  from  a  dozen  more  pretentious  volumes."  —  Hartford 
Coitraitt. 

"  It  is  a  special  merit  of  these  sketches  that,  by  their  graphic  naturalness 
of  coloring,  they  give  a  certain  vitality  to  scenes  with  which  the  reader  is  not 
supposed  to  be  familiar.  They  do  not  need  the  aid  of  personal  recollection 
to  supply  the  defects  of  the  description.  They  present  a  series  of  vivid  pic- 
tures, which,  by  the  beauty  of  their  composition  and  the  charming  quaintness 
of  their  characters,  form  an  exception  to  the  rule  that  narratives  of  travel  are 
interesting  in  proportion  to  the  reader's  previous  knowledge  of  the  subject. 
In  several  instances,  they  leave  the  beaten  track  of  the  tourist ;  but  they 
always  afford  a  fresh  attraction,  and,  if  we  mistake  not,  will  tempt  many  of  our 
countrymen,  in  their  European  rtconnoitring,  to  visit  the  scenes  of  which  they 
are  here  offered  so  tempting  a  foretaste."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

"  Travel  increaseth  a  man.  But,  next  to  going  bodily,  is  to  wander,  through 
the  magical  power  of  print,  whithersoever  one  will.  A  good  book  of  travel 
is  a  summer's  vacation.  This  little  book,  by  Mrs  Hunt,  is  a  series  of  rara 
pictures  of  life  in  Germany,  Italy,  and  Venice.  Every  one  is  in  itself  a  gem. 
Brilliant,  chatty,  full  of  fine  feminine  taste  and  feeling,  — just  the  letters  one 
waits  impatiently  to  get,  and  reads  till  the  paper  has  been  fingered  through. 
It  has  been  ofren  observed  that  women  are  the  best  correspondents.  We  can- 
not analyze  the  peculiar  charm  of  their  letters.  It  is  a  part  of  that  mysterious 
personnel  which  is  the  atmosphere  of  every  womanly  woman."  —  Boston 
Courier. 


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ABOUT   HOME    MATTERS. 

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••  A  New  Gospel  for  Mothers.  —  We  wish  that  e^'ery  mother  Jn 
the  land  would  read  '  Bits  of  Talk  about  Home  Matters,  by  H.  H.,  and 
that  they  would  read  it  thoughtfully.  The  latter  suggestion  is,  however, 
wholly  unnecessary  :  the  book  seizes  one's  thoughts  and  sympathies,  as 
only  startling  truths  presented  with  direct  earnestness  can  do.  .  .  .  The 
adoption  of  her  sentiments  would  w  holly  change  the  atmosphere  in  many 
a  house  to  what  it  ought  to  be,  and  bring  almost  constant  sunshine  and 
bliss  where  now  too  often  are  storm  and  misery."  — Lawrence  {Kansas) 
yournal. 

"  In  the  little  book  entitled  *  Bits  of  Talk,'  by  H.  H.,  Messrs.  Roberts 
Brothers  have  given  to  the  world  an  uncommonly  useful  collection  of 
essays,  —  useful  certainly  to  all  parents,  and  likely  to  do  good  to  all  chil- 
dren. Other  people  have  doubtless  held  as  correct  views  on  the  subjects 
treated  here,  though  few  have  ever  advanced  them  ;  and  none  that  we  are  , 
aware  have  made  them  so  attractive  as  they  are  made  by  H.  H.'s  crisp 
and  sparkling  style.  No  one  opening  the  book,  even  tiiough  without  rea- 
son for  special  interest  in  its  topics,  could,  after  a  glimpse  at  its  pages, 
lay  it  down  unread  ;  and  its  bright  and  witty  scintillations  will  f.x  many  a 
precept  and  establish  many  a  fact-  '  Bits  of  Talk  '  is  a  book  that  ought 
to  have  a  place  of  honor  in  every  household  ;  for  it  teaches,  not  only  the 
true  dignity  of  parentage,  but  of  childhood.  As  we  read  it,  we  laugh  and 
cry  with  the  author,  and  acknowledge  that,  since  the  child  is  father  of 
the  man,  in  being  the  champion  of  childhood,  she  is  the  champion  of  the 
whole  coming  race.  Great  is  the  rod,  but  H.  H.  is  not  its  prophet  I"  — 
M^s-  Harriet  Frescott  Spofford,  in  Newburyport  Herald, 


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"  Bits  of  Talk  "  and  "  Bits  of  Travel.'"     Price  $i .00. 


"The  volume  is  one  which  will  make  H.  H.  dear  to  all  the  lovers  of  triirt 
poetry.  Its  companionship  will  be  a  delight,  its  nobility  of  thought  and  of  purpose 
an  inspiration.  .  .  .  This  new  edition  comprises  not  only  the  former  little  book 
with  the  same  modest  title,  but  as  many  more  new  poems.  .  .  .  The  best  critics 
have  already  assigned  to  H.  H.  her  high  place  in  our  catalogue  of  authors.  She 
is,  without  doubt,  the  most  highly  intellectual  of  our  female  poets.  .  .  .  The  new 
poems,  while  not  inferior  to  the  others  in  point  of  literary  art,  have  in  them  more 
of  fervor  and  of  feeling  ;  more  of  that  lyric  sweetness  which  catches  the  attention 
and  makes  the  song  sing  itself  over  and  over  afterwards  in  the  remembering  brain. 
.  .  .  Some  of  the  new  poems  seem  among  the  noblest  H.  H.  has  ever  written. 
They  touch  the  high-water  mark  of  her  intellectual  power,  and  are  full,  besides,  ol 
passionate  and  tender  feeling.  Among  these  is  the  '  Funeral  March.'  "  —  N.  Y. 
Tribune. 

"A  delightful  book  is  the  elegant  little  volume  of  'Verses,'  by  H.  H.,— 
instinct  with  the  quality  of  the  finest  Christian  womanhood.  .  .  ,  Some  wives  and 
mothers,  growing  sedate  with  losses  and  cares,  will  read  many  of  these  '  Verses' 
with  a  feeling  of  admiration  that  is  full  of  tenderness."  —Advance. 

"  The  poems  of  this  lady  have  taken  a  place  in  public  estimation  perhaps 
higher  than  that  of  any  living  American  poetess.  .  .  .  They  are  the  thoughts  of 
a  delicate  and  refined  sensibility,  which  views  life  through  the  pure,  still  atmos- 
phere of  religious  fervor,  and  unites  all  thought  by  the  tender  talisman  of  love."  — 
Inter-Ocean. 

"  Since  the  days  of  poor  '  L.  E.  L.,'  no  woman  has  sailed  into  fame  under  a 
flag  inscribed  with  her  initials  only,  until  the  days  of '  H.  H.'  Here,  however, 
the  parallelism  ceases  ;  for  the  fresh,  strong  beauty  which  pervades  these  '  Verses 
fias  nothing  in  common  with  the  rather  languid  sweetness  of  the  earlier  writer. 
Unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  this  enlarged  volume,  double  the  size  of  that  origi- 
rally  issued,  will  place  its  author  not  merely  above  all  American  poetesses  and  all 
living  English  poetesses,  but  above  all  women  who  have  ever  written  poetry  in 
the  English  language,  except  Mrs.  Browning  alone.  '  H.  H.'  has  not  yet  proved 
herself  equal  to  Mrs.  Browning  in  range  of  imagination  ;  but  in  strength  and  depth 
the  American  writer  is  quite  the  equal  of  the  English,  and  in  cotnpactness  and 
symmetry  ::ltogether  her  superior."  —  T.  W.  H.  in  T/ie  Index. 


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SONNETS  AND  LYRICS. 

By    HELEN   JACKSON. 

One  Volume.     Square  i6mo.     Cloth.     Uniforfji  with  Mrs.  yacksori''. 
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Th.s  littlft  ^olumfe  is  instinct  with  the  vitality  of  the  large-hearted  and  large- 
minded  woman  whose  last  work  it  contains.  No  verse  could  be  further  removed 
from  the  self-consciousness  and  artifice  of  what  is  sometimes  known  as  the  *'  art 
school ;  "  and,  on  the  other  hand,  no  verse  could  be  more  entirely  free  from  the 
unregulated  overflow  of  emotion.  ...  It  is  sound  in  feeling  and  in  art ;  there 
IS  a  wholesome,  healthful  tone  running  through  the  whole  of  it,  from  those  earli- 
est lines  published  in  the  "  Nation,"  under  the  title,  so  full  of  meaning  to  her. 
"Lifted  Over,"  to  that  last  splendid  address  to  death  in  "Habeas  Corpus," 
written  on  one  of  the  last  days  of  her  conscious  life.  ...  In  the  verse  containe<l 
in  this  latest  volume  there  is  the  same  full-pulsed  love  for  all  things  beautiful  . 
for  mountains  and  clouds,  for  blue  skies  and  wide  seas,  for  the  wild-floweirs 
hidden  among  the  recesses  of  the  rocks,  and  for  the  great  stars  that,  for  human 
eyes  at  least,  mark  the  boundary  lines  of  the  universe.  There  is  no  aspect  of  ih« 
natural  world  from  which  Mrs.  Jackson's  large  and  masterful  nature  turned 
away  with  fear  or  repulsion.  Winter  stirs  her  imagination  no  less  than  summer, 
and  in  a  sonnet  on  "  January  "  she  invokes  it  in  lines  that  are  full  of  deep  per- 
ception of  the  beauty  that  lies  hidden  in  its  heart.  —  Christian  Union. 

The  spirit  of  the  little  book  in  which  are  brought  together  the  last  of  her 
hitherto  uncollected  pieces  is  singularly  gentle  and  winning,  and  it  will  strengthen 
the  affection  in  which  the  memory  of  "  H.  H."  is  cherished  by  many  hearts.  — 
New  York  Tribune. 


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Messrs.    Robe? is   Brothers    Publications. 

NELLY'S  Silver  Mine. 

By    H.    H. 

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"  The  sketches  of  life,  especially  of  its  odd  and  out-of-the-way  aspects,  by  H.  IL 
ilways  possess  so  vivid  a  reality  that  they  appear  more  like  the  actual  scenes  than 
any  copy  by  pencil  or  photograph.  They  form  a  series  of  living  pictures,  radiant 
"with  sunlight  and  fresh  as  morning  dew.  In  this  new  story  the  fruits  of  her  fine 
genius  are  of  Colorado  growth,  and  though  without  the  antique  flavor  of  her  recol- 
lections of  Rome  and  Venice,  are  as  delicious  to  the  taste  as  they  are  tempting  to 
the  eye,  and  afford  a  natural  feast  of  exquisite  quality."  —  A''.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  This  charming  little  book,  written  for  children's  entertainment  and  instruc- 
tion, is  equally  delightful  to  the  fathers  and  mothers.  It  is  life  in  New  England, 
and  the  racy  history  of  a  long  railway  journey  to  the  wilds  of  Colorado.  The 
children  are  neither  imps  nor  angels,  but  just  such  children  as  are  found  in  every 
happy  home.  The  pictures  are  so  graphically  drawn  that  we  feel  well  acquainted 
with  Rob  an<?  Nelly,  have  travelled  with  them  and  climbed  mountains  and  found 
silver  mines,  and  know  all  about  the  rude  life  made  beautiful  by  a  happy  family, 
and  can  say  of  Nelly,  with  their  German  neighbor,  Mr.  Kleesman,  '  Ach  well,  she 
haf  better  than  any  silver  mine  in  her  own  self.'  "  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

'In  'Nelly's  Silver  Mine'  Mrs.  Helen  Hunt  Jackson  has  given  us  a  true 
classic  for  the  nursery  and  the  school-room,  but  its  readers  will  not  be  confined  to 
any  locality.  Its  vivid  portraiture  of  Colorado  life  and  its  truth  to  child-nature 
give  it  a  charm  which  the  most  experienced  cannot  fail  to  feel.  It  will  stand  by 
the  side  of  Miss  Edgeworth  and  Mrs.  Barbauld  in  all  the  years  to  come."  —  Mn. 
Caroline  H.  Dall. 

'  We  heartily  commend  the  book  for  its  healthy  spirit,  its  lively  narrative,  an<J 
ts  freedom  from  most  of  the  faults  of  books  for  children."  —  Atlantic  Monthly. 


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ROBERTS   BROTHERS,   Boston. 


E.  H.'S  YOUNG  FOLKS'  BOOK. 


Bits   of   Talk, 


IN   VERSE  AND  PROSE, 


FOR    YOUNG     FOLKS. 


By    H.   H, 

author   of   "  bits    ov   talk   about   home  mattbrs,'' 
"bits  of  travel,"  "verses." 


" in  all  the  lands 

No  such  morning-glory."  —  Page  133. 


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